EON  WILSON 


FRED  M.  DEWITT 

BOOKSKI.LEH 
QUO  FOURTEENTH    Hff 


THE    SEEKER 


My  dear,  Bernal  is  saying  good-bye  !  " 


THE    SEEKER 

BY 

HARRY   LEON   WILSON 

Author  of  "The  Spenders" 
"The  Lions  of  the  Lord,"  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
ROSE   CECIL  O'NEILL 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 

Published,  August,  1904 


TO 

MY    FRIEND 
WILLIAM   CURTIS   GIBSON 


4957  ! 


"  Hath  not  the  potter  power  over  the  clay,  of  the  same 
lump  to  make  one  vessel  unto  honor,  and  another  unto  dis 
honor  ?  "—Holy  Writ. 

"John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul — 
God,  in  His  wisdom,  created  them  all. 
John  was  a  statesman  and  Peter  a  slave, 
Robert  a  preacher  and  Paul  was  a  knave. 
Evil  or  good,  as  the  case  might  be, 
White  or  colored,  or  bond  or  free, 
John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul- 
God,  in  His  wisdom,  created  them  all." 

The  Chemistry  of  Character. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK   ONE— The  Age  of  Fable 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  How  the  Christmas  Saint  was  Proved    .         .         3 

II.  An  Old  Man  Faces  Two  Ways         .        .        9 

III.  The  Cult  of  the  Candy  Cane      .         .         .17 

IV.  The  Big  House  of  Portents        .         .         .29 
V.  The  Life  of  Crime  Is  Appraised  and  Chosen       39 

VI.  The  Garden  of  Truth  and  the  Perfect  Father       5  2 

VII.  The  Superlative  Cousin  Bill  J.     .         .         .61 

VIII.  Searching  the  Scriptures       .         .         .         .66 

IX.  On  Surviving  the  Idols  We  Build      .         -74 

X.  The  Passing  of  the  Gratcher;  and  Another     83 

XI.  The  Strong  Person's  Narrative     ...       90 

XII.  A  New  Theory  of  a  Certain  Wicked  Man       95 


CHAPTER 


III. 

IV. 
V. 


CONTENTS— Continued 


BOOK  TWO— The  Age  oj  Reason 


VI.     In  the  Folly  of  His  Youth 


PAGE 


I.     The  Regrettable  Dementia  of  a  Convalescent     103 
II.     Further  Distressing  Fantasies  of  a  Clouded 

Mind 117 

Reason  Is  Again  Enthroned       .         .         .125 

A  Few  Letters 134 

"Is  the  Hand  of  the  Lord  Waxed  Short?"     14? 


152 


BOOK  THREE— The  Age  oj  Faith 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  Perverse   Behaviour  of  an   Old   Man 

and   a   Young   Man         .         .         .         .165 
II.     How  a  Brother  Was  Different     .         .         .171 

III.  How   Edom   Was   Favoured   of    God   and 

Mammon          .         .         .         .         .         .178 

IV.  The  Winning  of  Browett     .         .         .         .188 
V.     A  Belated   Martyrdom        .         .         .         .196 

VI.     The  Walls  of  St.  Antipas  Fall  at  the  Third 

Blast         .......  202 

VII.     There  Entereth  the  Serpent  of  Inappreciation  210 
VIII.     The  Apple  of  Doubt  is  Nibbled    .         .         .221 

IX.     Sinful  Perverseness  of  the  Natural  Woman  231 
X.     The   Reason   of  a   Woman   Who  Had  No 

Reason 238 

XI.     The  Remorse  of  Wondering  Nancy    .         .256 
XII.     The  Flexible  Mind  of  a  Pleased  Husband     264 


CONTENTS— Continued 
CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  The  Wheels   within  Wheels   of   the    Great 

Machine 273 

XIV.  The  Ineffective  Message      .        .        .        .286 
XV.     The  Woman  at  the  End  of  the  Path    .         .299 

XVI.     In  Which  the  Mirror  Is  Held  Up  to  Human 

Nature      .......     308 

XVII.     For  the  Sake  of  Nancy      .         .        .         .313 

XVIII.     The  Fell  Finger  of  Calumny  Seems  to  be 

Agreeably  Diverted 323 

XIX.     A  Mere  Bit  of  Gossip 334 


SCENES 

BOOK  ONE— The  Village  of  Edom 

BOOK  TWO— The  Same 
BOOK  THREE— New  York 


CHARACTERS 

ALLAN  DELCHER,  a  retired  Presbyterian  clergyman. 

BERNAL  LINFORD  ) 

xhis  grandsons. 
ALLAN  LINFORD    J 

CLAYTON  LINFORD,  Their  father,  of  the  artistic  tem 
perament,  and  versatile. 

CLYTEMNESTRA,  Housekeeper  for  Delcher. 

COUSIN  BILL  J.,  a  man  with  a  splendid  past. 

NANCY  CREALOCK,  A  wondering  child  and  woman. 

AUNT  BELL,  Nancy's  worldly  guide,  who,  having  lived 
in  Boston,  has  "broadened  into  the  higher  unbe 
lief." 

Miss  ALVIRA  ABNEY,  Edom's  leading  milliner,  capti 
vated  by  Cousin  Bill  J. 


CHARACTERS— Continued 

MILO  BARRUS,  The  village  atheist. 

THE  STRONG  PERSON,    of    the    "Gus    Levy    All-star 

Shamrock  Vaudeville." 
CALEB  WEBSTER,  a  travelled  Edomite. 
CYRUS  BROWETT,  a  New  York  capitalist  and  patron  of 

the  Church. 
MRS.  DONALD  WYETH,  an  appreciative  parishioner  of 

Allan  Linford. 

THE  REV.  MR.  WHITTAKER,  a  Unitarian. 
FATHER  RILEY,  of  the  Church  of  Rome. 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

"'My  dear,  Bernal  is  saying  good-bye!"      Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"She  could  be  made  to  believe  that  only  he  could 

protect  her  from  the  Gratcher" .         .  56 

"They  looked  forward  with  equal  eagerness  to  the 
day  when  he  should  become  a  great  and  good 
man"  9^ 

"He  gazed  iong  and  exultingly  into  the  eyes 

yielded  so  abjectly  to  his"  .  .  .  3°4 


BOOK   ONE 
The  Age  of  Fable 


THE   SEEKER 
BOOK  ONE— THE  AGE   OF  FABLE 

CHAPTER   I 
How  THE  CHRISTMAS  SAINT  WAS  PROVED 

THE  whispering  died  away  as  they  heard  heavy 
steps  and  saw  a  line  of  light  under  the  shut 
door.  Then  a  last  muffled  caution  from  the 
larger  boy  on  the  cot. 

"Now,  remember!  There  ain't  any,  but  don't  you 
let  on  there  ain't — else  he  won't  bring  you  a  single 
thing!" 

Before  the  despairing  soul  on  the  trundle-bed  could 
pierce  the  vulnerable  heel  of  this,  the  door  opened 
slowly  to  the  broad  shape  of  Clytemnestra.  One  hand 
shaded  her  eyes  from  the  candle  she  carried,  and  she 
peered  into  the  corner  where  the  two  beds  were,  a 
flurry  of  eagerness  in  her  face,  checked  by  stoic  self- 
mastery. 

At  once  from  the  older  boy  came  the  sounds  of  one 
who  breathes  labouredly  in  deep  sleep  after  a  hard  day. 
But  the  littler  boy  sat  rebelliously  up,  digging  combative 
fists  into  eyes  that  the  light  tickled.  Clytemnestra 
warmly  rebuked  him,  first  simulating  the  frown  of  the 
irritated. 

"Now,  Bernal!    Wide  awake!    My  days  alive!    You 

3 


4  THE  SEEKER 

act  like  a  wild  Indian's  little  boy.  This'll  never  do. 
Now  you  go  right  to  sleep  this  minute,  while  I  watch 
you.  Look  how  fine  and  good  Allan  is."  She  spoke 
low,  not  to  awaken  the  one  virtuous  sleeper,  who 
seemed  thereupon  to  breathe  with  a  more  swelling  and 
obtrusive  rectitude. 

"Clytie — now — ain't  there  any  Santa  Glaus?" 

"Now  what  a  sinful  question  that  is!" 

"But  w  there?" 

"Don't  he  bring  you  things?" 

"Oh,  there  ain't  any!"  There  was  a  sullen  despera 
tion  in  this,  as  of  one  done  with  quibbles.  But  the 
woman  still  paltered  wretchedly. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  quicker'n 
a  wink  I  bet  you  anything  he  won't  bring  you  a  single 
play-pretty." 

There  came  an  unmistakable  blare  of  triumph  into 
the  busy  snore  on  the  cot. 

But  the  heart  of  the  skeptic  was  sunk.  This  evasion 
was  more  disillusioning  than  downright  confession.  A 
moment  the  little  boy  regarded  her,  wholly  in  sorrow, 
with  big  eyes  that  blinked  alarmingly.  Then  came 
his  last  shot ;  the  final  bullet  which  the  besieged  warrior 
will  sometimes  reserve  for  his  own  destruction.  There 
could  no  longer  be  any  pretense  between  them.  Bravely 
he  faced  her. 

"Now — you  just  needn't  try  to  keep  it  from  me  any 

longer!  I  know  there  ain't  any "  One  tensely 

tragic  second  he  paused  to  gather  himself — "It's  all 
over  town!"  There  being  nothing  further  to  live  for,  he 
delivered  himself  to  grief — to  be  tortured  and  destroyed. 

Clytie  set  the  candle  on  the  bureau  and  came  to 
hover  him.  Within  the  pressing  arms  and  upon  the 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SAINT  5 

proffered  bosom  he  wept  out  one  of  those  griefs  that 
may  not  be  told — that  only  the  heart  can  understand. 
Yet,  when  the  first  passion  of  it  was  spent  she  began  to 
reassure  him,  begging  him  not  to  be  misled  by  idle 
gossip ;  to  take  not  even  her  own  testimony,  but  to  wait 
and  see  what  he  would  see.  At  last  he  listened  and  was 
a  little  soothed.  It  appeared  that  Santa  Glaus  was  one 
you  might  believe  in  or  might  not.  Even  Clytie 
seemed  to  be  puzzled  about  him.  He  could  see  that 
she  overflowed  with  belief  in  him,  yet  he  could  not 
make  her  confess  it  in  plain  straight  words.  The 
meat  of  it  was  that  good  children  found  things  on 
Christmas  morning  which  must  have  been  left  by 
some  one — if  not  by  Santa  Claus,  then  by  whom  ?  Did 
the  little  boy  believe,  for  example,  that  Milo  Barrus 
did  it  ?  He  was  the  village  atheist,  and  so  bad  a  man 
that  he  loved  to  spell  God  with  a  little  g. 

He  mused  upon  this  while  his  tears  dried,  finding  it 
plausible.  Of  course  it  couldn't  be  Milo  Barrus,  so 
it  must  be  Santa  Claus.  Was  Clytie  certain  some 
presents  would  be  there  in  the  morning?  If  he  went 
directly  to  sleep,  she  was. 

Hereupon  the  larger  boy  on  the  cot,  who  had  fo: 
some  moments  listened  in  forgetful  silence,  became 
again  virtuously  asleep  in  a  public  manner. 

But  the  littler  boy  must  yet  have  talk.  Could  the 
bells  of  Santa  Claus  be  heard  when  he  came  ? 

Clytie  had  known  some  children,  of  exceptional  merit, 
it  was  true,  who  claimed  to  have  heard  his  bells  on 
certain  nights  when  they  had  gone  early  to  sleep. 

Why  would  he  never  leave  anything  for  a  child  that 
got  up  out  of  bed  and  caught  him  at  it  ?  Suppose  one 
had  to  get  up  for  a  drink. 


6  THE  SEEKER 

Because  it  broke  the  charm. 

But  if  a  very,  very  good  child  just  happened  to  wake 
up  while  he  was  in  the  room,  and  didn't  pay  the  least 
attention  to  him,  or  even  look  sidewise  or  anything — 

Even  this  were  hazardous,  it  seemed;  though  if  the 
child  were  indeed  very  good  all  might  not  yet  be  lost. 

"Well,  won't  you  leave  the  light  for  me?  The  dark 
gets  in  my  eyes." 

But  this  was  another  adverse  condition,  making 
everything  impossible.  So  she  chided  and  reassured 
him,  tucked  the  covers  once  more  about  his  neck,  and 
left  him,  with  a  final  comment  on  the  advantage  of 
sleeping  at  once. 

When  the  room  was  dark  and  Clytie's  footsteps  had 
sounded  down  the  hall,  he  called  softly  to  his  brother; 
but  that  wise  child  was  now  truly  asleep.  So  the  littler 
boy  lay  musing,  having  resolved  to  stay  awake  and  solve 
the  mystery  once  for  all. 

From  wondering  what  he  might  receive  he  came  to 
wondering  if  he  were  good.  His  last  meditation  was 
upon  the  Sunday-school  book  his  dear  mother  had 
helped  him  read  before  they  took  her  away  with  a  new 
little  baby  that  had  never  amounted  to  much;  before  he 
and  Allan  came  to  Grandfather  Delcher's  to  live — 
where  there  was  a  great  deal  to  eat.  The  name  of  the 
book  was  "Ben  Holt."  He  remembered  this  especially 
because  a  text  often  quoted  in  the  story  said  "A  good 
name  is  rather  to  be  chosen  than  great  riches."  He 
had  often  wondered  why  Ben  Holt  should  be  con 
sidered  an  especially  good  name;  and  why  Ben  Holt 
came  to  choose  it  instead  of  the  goldpiece  he  found  and 
returned  to  the  schoolmaster,  before  he  fell  sick  and 
was  sent  away  to  the  country  where  the  merry  hay- 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SAINT  7 

makers  were.  Of  course,  there  were  worse  names  than 
Ben  Holt.  It  was  surely  better  than  Eygji  Watts, 
whose  sanguine  parents  were  said  to  have  named  him 
with  the  first  five  letters  they  drew  from  a  hat  containing 
the  alphabet;  Ben  Holt  was  assuredly  better  than 
Eygji,  even  had  this  not  been  rendered  into  "  Hedge 
hog"  by  careless  companions.  His  last  confusion  of 
ideas  was  a  wondering  if  Bernal  Linford  was  as  good  a 
name  as  Ben  Holt,  and  why  he  could  not  remember 
having  chosen  it  in  preference  to  a  goldpiece.  Back  of 
this,  in  his  fading  consciousness  was  the  high-coloured 
image  of  a  candy  cane,  too  splendid  for  earth. 

Then,  far  in  the  night,  as  it  might  have  seemed  to  the 
little  boy,  came  the  step  of  slippered  feet.  This  time 
Clytie,  satisfying  herself  that  both  boys  slept,  set  down 
her  candle  and  went  softly  out,  leaving  the  door  open. 
There  came  back  with  her  one  bearing  gifts — a  tall, 
dark  old  man,  with  a  face  of  many  deep  lines  and  severe 
set,  who  yet  somehow  shed  kindness,  as  if  he  held  a 
spirit  of  light  prisoned  within  his  darkness,  so  that, 
while  only  now  and  then  could  a  visible  ray  of  it  escape 
through  the  sombre  eye  or  through  a  sudden  winning 
quality  in  the  harsh  voice,  it  nevertheless  radiated  from 
him  sensibly  at  all  times,  to  belie  his  sternness  and  puzzle 
those  who  feared  him. 

Uneasy  enough  he  looked  now  as  Clytie  unloaded  him 
of  the  bundles  and  bulky  toys.  In  a  silence  broken 
only  by  their  breathing  they  quickly  bestowed  the  gifts 
— some  in  the  hanging  stockings  at  the  fire-place,  others 
beside  each  bed,  in  chairs  or  on  the  mantel. 

Then  they  were  in  the  hall  again,  the  door  closed  so 
that  they  could  speak.  The  old  man  took  up  his  own 
candle  from  a  stand  against  the  wall. 


8  THE  SEEKER 

"The  little  one  is  like  her,"  he  said. 

"He's  awful  cunning  and  bright,  but  Allan  is  the 
handsomest.  Never  in  my  born  days  did  I  see  so 
beautiful  a  boy." 

"But  he's  like  the  father,  line  for  line."  There  was  a 
sudden  savage  roughness  in  the  voice,  a  sterner  set  to 
the  shaven  upper  lip  and  straight  mouth,  though  he 
still  spoke  low.  "Like  the  huckstering,  godless  fiddle- 
player  that  took  her  away  from  me.  What  a  mercy  of 
God's  he'll  never  see  her  again — she  with  the  saved 
and  he — what  a  reckoning  for  him  when  he  goes!" 

"But  he  was  not  bad  to  let  you  take  them." 

"He  boasted  to  me  that  he'd  not  have  done  it,  except 
that  she  begged  him  with  her  last  breath  to  promise 
it.  He  said  the  words  with  great  maudlin  tears  raining 
down  his  face,  when  my  own  eyes  were  dry ! " 

"How  good  if-  you  can  leave  them  both  in  the  church, 
preaching  the  word  where  you  preached  it  so  many 
years ! " 

"I  misdoubt  the  father's  blood  in  them — at  least,  in 
the  older.  But  it's  late.  Good  night,  Clytie — a  good 
Christmas  to  you." 

"More  to  you,  Mr.  Delcher!     Good  night!" 


CHAPTER  II 

AN  OLD  MAN  FACES  Two  WAYS 

His  candle  up,  he  went  softly  along  the  white  hall 
way  over  the  heavy  red  carpet,  to  where  a  door  at  the 
end,  half-open,  let  him  into  his  study.  Here  a  wood 
fire  at  the  stage  of  glowing  coals  made  a  searching 
warmth.  Blowing  out  his  candle,  he  seated  himself 
at  the  table  where  a  shaded  lamp  cast  its  glare  upon  a 
litter  of  books  and  papers.  A  big,  white-breasted 
gray  cat  yawned  and  stretched  itself  from  the  hearth 
rug  and  leaped  lightly  upon  him  with  great  rumbling 
purrs,  nosing  its  head  under  one  of  his  hands  sug 
gestively,  and,  when  he  stroked  it,  looking  up  at  him 
with  lazily  falling  eye-lids. 

He  crossed  his  knees  to  make  a  better  lap  for  the  cat, 
and  fell  to  musing  backward  into  his  own  boyhood, 
when  the  Christmas  Saint  was  a  real  presence.  Then 
he  came  forward  to  his  youth,  when  he  had  obeyed  the 
call  of  the  Lord  against  his  father's  express  command 
that  he  follow  the  family  way  and  become  a  prosperous 
manufacturer.  Truly  there  had  been  revolt  in  him. 
Perhaps  he  had  never  enough  considered  this  in  excuse 
for  his  own  daughter's  revolt. 

Again  he  dwelt  in  the  days  when  he  had  preached 
with  a  hot  passion  such  truth  as  was  his.  For  a  long 
time,  while  the  old  clock  ticked  on  the  mantel  before 
him  and  the  big  cat  purred  or  slept  under  his  absent 

9 


10  THE  SEEKER 

pettings,  his  mind  moved  through  an  incident  of  that 
early  ministry.  Clear  in  his  memory  were  certain 
passages  of  fire  from  the  sermon.  In  the  little  log 
church  at  Edom  he  had  felt  the  spirit  burn  in  him  and 
he  had  movingly  voiced  its  warnings  of  that  dread  place 
where  the  flames  forever  blaze,  yet  never  consume; 
where  cries  ever  go  up  for  one  drop  of  water  to  cool  the 
parched  tongues  of  those  who  sought  not  God  while 
they  lived.  He  had  told  of  one  who  died — one  that  the 
world  called  good,  a  moral  man — but  not  a  Christian; 
one  who  had  perversely  neglected  the  way  of  life. 
How,  on  his  death-bed,  this  one  had  called  in  agony 
for  a  last  glass  of  water,  seeming  to  know  all  at  once 
that  he  would  now  be  where  no  drop  of  water  could 
cool  him  through  all  eternity. 

So  effective  had  been  his  putting  of  this  that  a 
terrified  throng  came  forward  at  his  call  for  converts. 

The  next  morning  he  had  ridden  away  from  Edom 
toward  Felton  Falls  to  preach  there.  A  mile  out  of 
town  he  had  been  accosted  by  a  big,  bearded  man  who 
had  yet  a  singularly  childish  look — who  urged  that  he 
come  to  his  cabin  to  minister  to  a  sick  friend.  He 
knew  the  fellow  for  one  that  the  village  of  Edom  called 
"daft"  or  "queer,"  yet  held  to  be  harmless — to  be 
rather  amusing,  indeed,  since  he  could  be  provoked 
to  deliver  curious  harangues  upon  the  subject  of 
revealed  religion.  He  remembered  now  that  the  man's 
face  had  stared  at  him  from  far  back  in  the  church  the 
night  before — a  face  full  of  the  liveliest  terror,  though 
he  had  not  been  among  those  that  fled  to  the  mercy- 
seat.  Acceding  to  the  man's  request,  he  followed  him 
up  a  wooded  path  to  his  cabin.  Dismounting  and 
tying  his  horse,  he  entered  and,  turning  to  ask  where 


AN  OLD  MAN  FACES  TWO  WAYS        11 

the  sick  man  was,  found  himself  throttled  in  the  grasp 
of  a  giant. 

He  was  thrust  into  an  inner  room,  windowless  and 
with  no  door  other  than  the  one  now  barred  by  his 
chuckling  captor.  And  here  the  Reverend  Allan 
Delcher  had  lain  three  days  and  two  nights  captive  of  a 
madman,  with  no  food  and  without  one  drop  of  water. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  log  partition  his  captor 
had  declared  himself  to  be  the  keeper  of  hell.  Even 
now  he  could  hear  the  words  maundered  through 
the  chinks:  "Never  got  another  drop  of  water  for  a 
million  years  and  still  more,  and  him  a  burning  up  and 
a  roasting  up,  and  his  tongue  a  lolling  out,  all  of  a 
sizzle.  Now  wasn't  that  fine — because  folks  said  he'd 
likely  gone  crazy  about  religion!" 

Other  times  his  captor  would  declare  himself  to  be 
John  the  Baptist  making  straight  the  paths  in  the 
wilderness.  Again  he  would  quote  passages  of 
scripture,  some  of  them  hideous  mockeries  to  the 
tortured  prisoner,  some  strangely  soothing  and  sug 
gestive. 

But  a  search  had  been  made  for  the  missing  man 
and,  quite  by  accident,  they  had  found  him,  at  a  time 
when  it  seemed  to  him  his  mind  must  go  with  his 
captor's.  His  recovery  from  the  physical  blight  of 
this  captivity  had  been  prompt;  but  there  were  those 
who  sat  under  him  who  insisted  that  ever  after  he  had 
been  palpably  less  insistent  upon  the  feature  of  divine 
retribution  for  what  might  be  called  the  merely  technical 
sins  of  heterodoxy.  Not  that  unsound  doctrine  was 
ever  so  much  as  hinted  of  him ;  only,  as  once  averred  a 
plain  parishioner,  "He  seemed  to  bear  down  on  hell 
jest  a  lee-tie  less  continuously." 


12  THE  SEEKER 

As  for  his  young  wife,  she  had  ever  after  professed  an 
unconquerable  aversion  for  those  sermons  in  which 
God's  punishment  of  sinners  was  set  forth;  and  this 
had  strangely  been  true  of  their  daughter,  born  but  a 
little  time  after  the  father's  release  from  the  maniac's 
cabin.  She  had  grown  to  womanhood  submitting 
meekly  to  an  iron  rule;  but  none  the  less  betraying  an 
acute  repugnance  for  certain  doctrines  preached  by  her 
father.  It  seemed  to  the  old  man  a  long  way  to  look 
back;  and  then  a  long  way  to  come  forward  again,  past 
the  death  of  his  girl-wife  while  their  child  was  still 
tender,  down  to  the  amazing  iniquity  of  that  child's 
revolt,  in  her  thirty-first  year.  Dumbly,  dutifully,  had 
she  submitted  to  all  his  restrictions  and  severities, 
stonily  watching  her  girlhood  go,  through  a  fading, 
lining  and  hardening  of  her  prettiness.  Then  all  at 
once,  with  no  word  of  pleading  or  warning,  she  had 
done  the  monstrous  thing.  He  awoke  one  day  to 
know  that  his  beloved  child  had  gone  away  to  marry 
the  handsome,  swaggering,  fiddle-playing  good-for- 
nothing  who  had  that  winter  given  singing  lessons  in 
the  village. 

Only  once  after  that  had  he  looked  upon  her  face — 
the  face  of  a  withered  sprite,  subdued  by  time.  The 
hurt  of  that  look  was  still  fresh  in  him,  making  his 
mind  turn  heavily,  perhaps  a  little  remorsefully,  to 
the  two  little  boys  asleep  in  the  west  bedroom.  Had 
the  seed  of  revolt  been  in  her,  from  his  own  revolt 
against  his  father  ?  Would  it  presently  bear  some  ugly 
fruit  in  her  sons  ? 

From  a  drawer  in  the  table  he  took  a  little  sheaf  of 
folded  sheets,  and  read  again  the  last  letter  that  had 
come  from  her;  read  it  not  without  grim  mutterings  and 


AN  OLD  MAN  FACES  TWO  WAYS        13 

oblique  little  jerks  of  the  narrow  old  head,  yet  with 
quick  tender  glows  melting  the  sternness. 

"You  must  not  think  I  have  ever  regretted  my  choice, 
though  every  day  of  my  life  I  have  sorrowed  at  your 
decision  not  to  see  me  so  long  as  I  stayed  by  my  husband. 
How  many  times  I  have  prayed  God  to  remind  you 
that  I  took  him  for  better  or  worse,  till  death  should  us 
part." 

This  made  him  mutter. 

"Clayton  has  never  in  his  life  failed  of  kindness  and 
gentleness  to  me" — so  ran  the  letter — "and  he  has 
always  provided  for  us  as  well  as  a  man  of  his  uncommon 
talents  could." 

Here  the  old  man  sniffed  in  fine  contempt. 

"All  last  winter  he  had  quite  a  class  to  teach  singing 
in  the  evening  and  three  day-scholars  for  the  violin,  one 
of  whom  paid  him  in  hams.  Another  offered  to  pay 
either  in  money  or  a  beautiful  portrait  of  me  in  pastel. 
We  needed  money,  but  Clayton  chose  the  portrait  as  a 
surprise  to  me.  At  times  he  seems  unpractical,  but 
now  he  has  started  out  in  business  again " 

There  were  bitter  shakings  of  the  head  here.  Busi 
ness!  Standing  in  a  buggy  at  street-corners,  jauntily 
urging  a  crowd  to  buy  the  magic  grease-eradicator, 
toothache  remedy,  meretricious  jewelry,  what  not! 
first  playing  a  fiddle  and  rollicking  out  some  ribald 
song  to  fetch  them.  Business  indeed!  A  pretty 
business ! 

"The  boys  are  delighted  with  the  Bibles  you  sent  and 
learn  a  verse  each  day.  I  have  told  them  they  may 
some  day  preach  as  you  did  if  they  will  be  as  good  men 
as  you  are  and  study  the  Bible.  They  try  to  preach 
like  our  preacher  in  the  cunningest  way.  I  wish  you 


14  THE  SEEKER 

could  see  them.  You  would  love  them  in  spite  of  your 
feeling  against  their  father.  I  did  what  you  suggested 
to  stimulate  their  minds  about  the  Scriptures,  but 
perhaps  the  lesson  they  chose  to  write  about  was  not 
very  edifying.  It  does  not  seem  a  pretty  lesson  to  me, 
and  I  did  not  pick  it  out.  They  heard  about  it  at 
Sabbath-school  and  had  their  papers  all  written  as  a 
surprise  for  me.  Of  course,  BernaFs  is  'very  childish, 
but  I  think  Allan's  paper,  for  a  child  of  his  age,  shows  a 
grasp  of  religious  matters  that  is  truly  remarkable.  I 
shall  keep  them  studying  the  Bible  daily.  I  should  tell 

you  that  I  am  now  looking  forward  with  great  joy 
j  » 

With  a  long  sigh  he  laid  down  the  finely  written  sheet 
and  took  from  the  sheaf  the  two  papers  she  had  spoken 
of.  Then  while  the  gale  roared  without  and  shook  his 
window,  and  while  the  bust  of  John  Calvin  looked 
down  at  him  from  the  book-case  at  his  back,  he  fol 
lowed  his  two  grandsons  on  their  first  incursion  into 
the  domain  of  speculative  theology. 

He  took  first  the  paper  of  the  older  boy,  painfully 
elaborated  with  heavy,  intricate  capitals  and  headed 
"Elisha  and  the  Wicked  Children— by  Mr.  Allan 
Delcher  Linford,  Esquire,  aged  nine  years  and  six 
months." 

"This  lesson,"  it  began,  "is  to  teach  us  to  love  God 
and  the  prophets  or  else  we  will  likely  get  into  trouble. 
It  says  Elisha  went  up  from  Bethel  and  some  children 
came  out  of  the  city  and  said  go  up  thou  Baldhead. 
They  said  it  Twice  one  after  the  other  and  so  Elisha  got 
mad  right  away  and  turned  around  and  cursed  them 
good  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  and  so  2  She  Bears  come 


AN  OLD  MAN  FACES  TWO  WAYS        15 

along  and  et  up  42  of  them  for  Elisha  was  a  holy 
prophet  of  God  and  had  not  ought  to  of  been  yelled  at. 
So  of  course  the  mothers  would  Take  on  very  much 
When  they  found  their  42  Children  et  up  but  I  think 
that  we  had  ought  to  learn  from  this  that  these  42 
Little  ones  was  not  the  Elected.  It  says  in  our  cat- 
chism  God  having  out  of  his  mere  good  pleasure 
elected  some  to  everlasting  life.  Now  God  being  a 
Presbiterian  would  know  these  42  little  ones  had  not 
been  elected  so  they  might  as  well  be  et  up  by  bears  as 
anything  else  to  show  forth  his  honour  and  glory  For 
ever  Amen.  It  should  teach  a  Boy  to  be  mighty 
earful  about  kidding  old  men  unless  he  is  a  Presbite 
rian.  I  spelled  every  word  in  this  right. 

"  MR.  ALLAN  DELCHER  LINFORD." 

The  second  paper,  which  the  old  man  now  held  long 
before  him,  was  partly  printed  and  partly  written  with 
a  lead-pencil,  whose  mark  was  now  faint  and  now 
heavy,  as  having  gone  at  intervals  to  the  writer's  lips. 
As  the  old  man  read,  his  face  lost  not  a  little  of  its 
grimness. 

"BEARS 

"It  teaches  the  lord  thy  God  is  baldheaded.  I  ask 
my  deer  father  what  it  teeches  he  said  it  teeches  who 
ever  wrot  that  storry  was  baldheaded.  he  says  a  man 
with  thik  long  hair  like  my  deer  father  would  of  said 

0  let  the  kids  have  their  fun  with  old  Elisha  so  I  ask 
my  deer  mother  who  wrot  this  lesson  she  said  God  wrot 
the  holy  word  so  that  is  how  we  know  God  is  bald- 
headed.     It  was  a  lot  of  children  for  only  two  2  bears. 

1  liked  to  of  ben  there  if  the  bears  wold  of  known  that  I 
was  a  good  child,      mabe  I  cold  of    ben  on  a  high 


16  THE  SEEKER 

fense  or  up  a  tree.     I  climd  the  sor  aple  tree  in  our 
back  yard  esy. 

"  By  BERNAL  LINFORD,  aged  neerly  8  yrs." 

Carefully  he  put  back  both  papers  with  the  mother's 
letter,  his  dark  face  showing  all  its  intricate  net-work  of 
lines  in  a  tension  that  was  both  pained  and  humorous. 

Two  fresh  souls  were  given  to  his  care  to  be  made, 
please  God,  the  means  of  grace  by  which  thousands  of 
other  souls  might  be  washed  clean  of  the  stain  of 
original  sin.  Yet,  if  revolt  was  there — revolt  like  his 
daughter's  and  like  his  own  ?  Would  he  forgive  as  his 
own  father  had  forgiven,  who  had  called  him  back  after 
many  years  to  live  out  a  tranquil  old  age  on  the  fortune 
that  father's  father  had  founded  ?  He  mused  long  on 
this.  The  age  was  lax — true,  but  God's  law  was  never 
lax.  If  one  would  revolt  from  the  right,  one  must 
suffer.  For  the  old  man  was  one  of  the  few  last  of  a 
race  of  giants  who  were  to  believe  always  in  the  Printed 
Word. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  CULT  OF  THE  CANDY  CANE 

WHEN  the  littler  boy  looked  fairly  into  the  frosty 
gray  of  "that  Christmas  morning,  the  trailed  banner  of 
his  faith  was  snatched  once  more  aloft;  and  in  the  breast 
of  his  complacent  brother  there  swelled  the  conviction 
that  one  does  ill  to  flaunt  one's  skepticism,  when  the 
rewards  of  belief  are  substantial  and  imminent.  For 
before  them  was  an  array  of  gifts  such  as  neither  had 
ever  looked  upon  before,  save  as  forbidden  treasure  of 
the  few  persons  whose  immense  wealth  enables  them 
to  keep  toy-shops. 

The  tale  of  the  princely  Saint  was  now  authenticated 
delightfully.  That  which  had  made  him  seem  unreal 
in  moments  of  spiritual  laxity — the  impenetrable 
secrecy  of  his  private  life — was  now  seen  to  enhance 
manyfold  his  wondrous  givings.  Here  was  a  charm 
which  could  never  have  sat  the  display  before  them 
had  it  been  dryly  bought  in  their  presence  from  one 
of  the  millionaire  toy-shop  keepers.  For  a  wondering 
moment  they  looked  from  their  beds,  sputtering, 
gibbering,  gasping,  with  cautious  calls  one  to  the 
other.  Then  having  proved  speech  to  be  no  disen 
chantment  they  shouted  and  laughed  crazily.  There 
followed  a  scramble  from  the  beds  and  a  swift  return 
from  the  cold,  each  bearing  such  of  the  priceless  bits  as 
had  lain  nearest.  And  while  these  were  fondled  or 

17 


18  THE  SEEKER 

shot  or  blown  upon  or  tasted  or  wound  up,  each  ac 
cording  to  its  wonderful  nature,  they  looked  farther 
afield  seeing  other  and  ever  new  packages  bulk  mys 
teriously  into  the  growing  light;  bundles  quickening 
before  their  eyes  with  every  delight  to  be  imagined  of  a 
Saint  with  epicurean  tastes  and  prodigal  habits — 
bundles  that  looked  as  if  a  mere  twitch  at  the  cord 
would  expose  their  hidden  charms. 

The  littler  boy  now  wore  a  unique  fur  cap  that  let 
down  to  cover  the  neck  and  face,  with  openings  wonder 
fully  contrived  for  the  eyes,  nose  and  mouth — an  easy 
triumph,  surely,  over  the  deadliest  cold  known  to  man. 
In  one  hand  he  flourished  a  brass-handled  knife  with 
both  of  its  blades  open;  with  the  other  he  clasped  a 
striped  trumpet,  into  the  china  mouthpiece  of  which 
he  had  blown  the  shreds  of  a  caramel,  not  meaning  to; 
and  here  he  was  made  to  forget  these  trifles  by  dis 
covering  at  the  farther  side  of  the  room  a  veritable 
rocking-horse,  a  creature  that  looked  not  only  magnifi 
cently  willing,  but  superbly  untamable,  with  a  white 
mane  and  tail  of  celestial  flow,  with  alert,  pointed  ears 
of  maroon  leather  nailed  nicely  to  the  right  spot.  At 
this  marvel  he  stared  in  that  silence  which  is  the 
highest  power  of  joy:  a  presentiment  had  been  his  that 
such  a  horse,  curveting  on  blue  rockers,  would  be  found 
on  this  very  morning.  Two  days  before  had  he  in  an 
absent  moment  beheld  a  vision  of  this  horse  poised  near 
the  door  of  the  attic;  but  when  he  ran  to  make  report  of 
it  below,  thinking  to  astound  people  by  his  power  of 
insight,  Clytemnestra,  bidding  him  wait  in  the  kitchen 
where  she  was  baking,  had  hurried  to  the  spot  and 
found  only  some  rolls  of  blue  cambric.  She  had 
rather  shamed  him  for  giving  her  such  a  start.  A  few 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  CANDY  CANE   19 

rolls  of  shiny  blue  cambric  against  a  white  wall  did  not, 
she  assured  him,  make  a  rocking-horse;  and,  what  was 
more,  they  never  would.  Now  the  vision  came  back 
with  a  significance  that  set  him  all  a-thrill.  Next  time 
Clytie  would  pay  attention  to  him.  He  laughed  to 
think  of  her  confusion  now. 

But  here  again,  at  the  very  zenith  of  a  shout,  was  he 
frozen  to  silence  by  a  vision — this  time  one  too  obviously 
of  no  ponderable  fabric.  There  in  the  corner,  almost 
at  his  hand,  seemed  to  be  a  thing  that  he  had  dreamed 
of  possessing  only  after  he  entered  Heaven — a  candy 
cane :  one  of  fearful  length,  thick  of  girth,  vast  of  crook, 
and  wide  in  the  spiral  stripe  that  seemed  to  run  a 
living  flame  before  his  ravished  eyes,  beginning  at  the 
bottom  and  winding  around  and  around  the  whole 
dizzy  height.  Fearfully  in  nerve-braced  silence  he 
leaned  far  out  of  his  bed  to  bring  against  this  amazing 
apparition  one  cool,  impartial  forefinger  of  skeptic 
research.  It  did  not  vanish;  it  resisted  his  touch. 
Then  his  heart  fainted  with  rapture,  for  he  knew  the 
unimagined  had  become  history. 

Standing  before  the  windows  of  the  great,  he  had 
gazed  long  at  these  creations.  They  were  suspended  on 
a  wire  across  the  window  in  various  lengths,  from  little 
ones  to  sizes  too  awesome  to  compute.  On  one  occasion 
so  long  had  he  stood  motionless,  so  deep  the  trance 
of  his  contemplation,  that  the  winter  cold  had  cruelly 
bitten  his  ears  and  toes.  He  had  not  supposed  that 
these  things  were  for  mere  vulgar  ownership.  He  had 
known  of  boys  who  had  guns  and  building-blocks  and 
rocking-horses  as  well  as  candy  in  the  lesser  degrees; 
but  never  had  he  known,  never  had  he  been  able  to  hear 
of  one  who  had  owned  a  thing  like  this.  Indeed, 


20  THE  SEEKER 

v 

among  the  boys  he  knew,  it  was  believed  that  they 
were  not  even  to  be  seen  save  on  their  wire  at  Christmas 
time  in  the  windows  of  the  rich.  One  boy  had  hinted 
that  the  "set"  would  not  be  broken  even  if  a  person 
should  appear  with  money  enough  to  buy  a  single  one. 
And  here  before  him  was  the  finest  of  them  all,  receding 
neither  from  his  gaze  or  his  touch,  one  as  long  as  the 
longest  of  which  Heaven  had  hitherto  vouchsafed  him 
a  chilling  vision  through  glass;  here  was  the  same 
fascinating  union  of  transcendent  merit  with  a  playful 
suggestion  of  downright  utility.  And  he  had  blurted 
out  to  Clytie  that  the  news  of  there  being  no  Santa 
Glaus  was  all  over  town!  He  was  ashamed,  and  the 
moment  became  for  him  one  of  chastening  in  which  he 
humbled  his  unbelieving  spirit  before  this  symbol  of  a 
more  than  earthly  goodness — a  symbol  in  whose  pres 
ence,  while  as  yet  no  accident  had  rendered  it  less  than 
perfect,  he  would  never  cease  to  feel  the  spiritual 
uplift  of  one  who  has  weighed  the  fruits  of  faith  and 
found  them  not  wanting. 

He  issued  from  some  bottomless  stupor  of  ecstacy  to 
hear  the  door  open  to  Allan's  shouts;  then  to  see 
the  opening  nicely  filled  again  by  the  figure  of  Clytem- 
nestra,  who  looked  over  at  them  with  eager,  shining 
eyes.  He  was  at  first  powerless  to  do  more  than  say 
"Oh,  Clytie!"  with  little  impotent  pointings  toward 
the  candy  cane.  But  the  action  now  in  order  served 
to  restore  him  to  a  state  of  working  sanity.  There  was 
washing  and  dressing  after  Clytie  had  the  fire  crackling; 
the  forgetting  of  some  treasures  to  remember  others; 
and  the  conveyance  of  them  all  down  stairs  to  the  big 
sitting-room  where  the  sun  came  in  over  the  geraniums 
in  the  bay-window,  and  where  the  Franklin  heater 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  CANDY  CANE   21 

made  the  air  tropic.  The  rocking-horse  was  led  and 
pushed  by  both  boys;  but  to  Clyde's  responsible  hand 
alone  was  intrusted  the  more  than  earthly  candy  cane. 

Downstairs  there  was  the  grandfather  to  greet — 
erect,  fresh-shaven,  flashing  kind  eyes  from  under 
stern  brows.  He  seemed  to  be  awkwardly  pleased 
with  their  pleasure,  yet  scarce  able  to  be  one  with 
them ;  as  if  that  inner  white  spirit  of  his  fluttered  more 
than  its  wont  to  be  free,  yet  found  only  tiny  exits  for 
its  furtive  flashes  of  light. 

Breakfast  was  a  chattering  and  explosive  meal,  a 
severe  trial,  indeed,  to  the  patience  of  the  littler  boy, 
who  decided  that  he  wished  never  to  eat  breakfast  again. 
During  the  ten  days  that  he  had  been  a  member  of  the 
household  a  certain  formality  observed  at  the  beginning 
of  each  meal  had  held  him  in  abject  fascination,  so  that 
he  looked  forward  to  it  with  pleased  terror.  This  was 
that,  when  they  were  all  seated,  there  ensued  a  pause 
of  precisely  two  seconds — no  more  and  no  less — a  pause 
that  became  awful  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  every  one 
grew  instantly  solemn  and  expectant — even  apprehen 
sive.  His  tingling  nerves  had  defined  his  spine  for  him 
before  this  pause  ended,  and  then,  when  the  roots  of  his 
hair  began  to  crinkle,  his  grandfather  would  suddenly 
bow  low  over  his  plate  and  rumble  in  his  head.  It  was 
very  curious  and  weirdly  pleasurable,  and  it  lasted  one 
minute.  When  it  ceased  the  tension  relaxed  instantly, 
and  every  one  was  friendly  and  cordial  and  safe  again. 

This  morning  the  little  boy  was  actually  impatient 
during  the  rumble,  so  eager  was  he  to  talk.  And  not 
until  he  had  been  assured  by  both  his  grandfather  and 
Clytie  that  Santa  Claus  meant  everything  he  left  to  be 
truly  kept;  that  he  came  back  for  nothing — not  even 


22  THE  SEEKER 

for  a  cane — of  any  kind — that  he  might  have  left  at  a 
certain  house  by  mistake — not  until  then  would  he 
heave  the  sigh  of  immediate  security  and  consent  to 
eat  his  egg  and  muffins,  of  which  latter  Clytie  had  to 
bring  hot  ones  from  the  kitchen  because  both  boys 
had  let  the  first  plate  go  cold.  For  Clytie,  like  Grand 
father  Delcher,  was  also  one  of  the  last  of  a  race  of 
American  giants — in  her  case  a  race  preceding  servants, 
that  called  itself  "hired  girls" — who  not  only  ate  with 
the  family,  but  joyed  and  sorrowed  with  it  and  for 
long  terms  of  years  was  a  part  of  it  in  devotion, 
responsibility  and  self-respect.  She  had,  it  is  true, 
dreaded  the  coming  of  these  children,  but  from  the 
moment  that  the  two  cold,  subdued  little  figures  had 
looked  in  doubting  amazement  at  the  four  kinds  of 
preserves  and  three  kinds  of  cake  set  out  for  their  first 
collation  in  the  new  home,  she  had  rejoiced  unceasingly 
in  a  vicarious  motherhood. 

Within  an  hour  after  breakfast  the  morning's  find 
had  been  examined,  appraised,  and  accorded  perpetual 
rank  by  merit.  Grandfather  Delcher  made  but  one 
timid  effort  to  influence  decisions. 

"Now,  Bernal,  which  do  you  like  best  of  all  your 
presents?"  he  asked.  With  a  heart  too  full  for  words 
the  littler  boy  had  pointed  promptly  but  shyly  at  his 
candy  cane.  Not  once,  indeed,  had  he  been  able  to 
say  the  words  "candy  cane."  It  was  a  creation  which 
mere  words  were  inadequate  to  name.  It  was  a 
presence  to  be  pointed  at.  He  pointed  again  firmly 
when  the  old  man  asked,  "Are  you  quite  certain,  now, 
you  like  it  best  of  all?" — suggestively — " better  than 
this  fine  book  with  this  beautiful  picture  of  Joseph 
being  sold  away  by  his  wicked  brothers  ?  " 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  CANDY  CANE  23 

The  questioner  had  turned  then  to  the  older  boy, 
who  tactfully  divined  that  a  different  answer  would 
have  pleased  the  old  man  better. 

"And  what  do  you  like  best,  Allan?" 

"Oh,  I  like  this  fine  and  splendid  book  best  of  all!" 
— and  he  read  from  the  title-page,  in  the  clear,  confident 
tones  of  the  pupil  who  knows  that  the  teacher's  favour 
rests  upon  him — "'From  Eden  to  Calvary;  or  through 
the  Bible  in  a  year  with  our  boys  and  girls;  a  book  of 
pleasure  and  profit  for  young  persons  on  Sabbath 
Afternoon.  By  Grandpa  Silas  Atterbury,  the  well- 
known  author  and  writer  for  young  people." 

His  glance  toward  his  brother  at  the  close  was  meant 
to  betray  the  consciousness  of  his  own  superiority  to 
one  who  dallied  sensuously  with  created  objects. 

But  the  unspiritual  one  was  riding  the  new  horse 
at  a  furious  gallop,  and  the  glance  of  reproof  was 
unnoted  save  by  the  old  man — who  wondered  if  it 
might  be  by  any  absurd  twist  that  the  boy  most  like 
the  godless  father  were  more  godly  than  the  one  so  like 
his  mother  that  every  note  of  his  little  voice  and  every 
full  glance  of  his  big  blue  eyes  made  the  old  heart 
flutter. 

In  the  afternoon  came  callers  from  the  next  house; 
Dr.  Crealock,  rubicund  and  portly,  leaning  on  his 
cane,  to  pass  the  word  of  seasonable  cheer  with  his  old 
friend  and  pastor;  and  with  him  his  tiny  niece  to  greet 
the  grandchildren  of  his  friend.  The  Doctor  went 
with  his  host  to  the  study  on  the  second  floor,  where, 
as  a  Christmas  custom,  they  would  drink  some  Madeira, 
ancient  of  days,  from  a  cask  prescribed  and  furnished 
long  since  by  the  doctor. 

The  little  boy  was  for  the  moment  left  alone  with 


24  THE  SEEKER 

the  tiny  niece;  to  stare  curiously,  now  that  she  was 
close,  at  one  of  whom  he  had  caught  glimpses  in  a 
window  of  the  big  house  next  door.  She  was  clad  in 
a  bjack  velvet  cloak  and  hood,  with  pink  satin  next  her 
face  inside  the  hood,  and  she  carried  a  large  closely- 
wrapped  doll  which  she  affected  to  think  might  have 
taken  cold.  With  great  self-possession  she  doffed  her 
cloak  and  overshoes ;  then  slowly  and  tenderly  unwound 
the  wrappings  of  the  doll,  talking  meanwhile  in  low 
mothering  tones,  and  going  with  it  to  the  fire  when  she 
had  it  uncloaked.  Of  the  boy  who  stared  at  her  she 
seemed  unconscious,  and  he  could  do  no  more  than 
stand  timidly  at  a  little  distance.  An  eye-flash  from 
the  maid  may  have  perceived  his  abjectness,  for  she 
said  haughtily  at  length,  "I'm  astonished  no  one  in  this 
house  knows  where  Clytie  is!" 

He  drew  nearer  by  as  far  as  he  could  slowly  spread 
his  feet  twice. 

"7  know — now — she  went  to  get  two  glasses  from 
the  dresser  to  take  to  my  grandfather  and  that  gentle 
man."  He  felt  voluble  from  the  mere  ease  of  the 
answer.  But  she  affected  to  have  heard  nothing,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  speak  again. 

"Now — why,  /  know  a  doll  that  shuts  up  her  eyes 
every  time  she  lies  down." 

The  doll  at  hand  was  promptly  extended  on  the  little 
lap  and  with  a  click  went  into  sudden  sleep  while  the 
mother  rocked  it.  He  could  have  ventured  nothing 
more  after  this  pricking  of  his  inflated  little  speech.  A 
moment  he  stood,  suffering  moderately,  and  then  would 
have  edged  cautiously  away  with  the  air  of  wishing  to 
go,  only  at  this  point,  without  seeming  to  see  him,  she 
chirped  to  him  quite  winningly  in  a  soft,  warm  little 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  CANDY  CANE   25 

voice,  and  there  was  free  talk  at  once.  He  manfully  let 
her  tell  of  all  her  silly  little  presents  before  talking  of 
his  own.  He  even  listened  about  the  doll,  whose  name 
Santa  Claus  had  thoughtfully  painted  on  the  box  in 
which  she  came;  it  was  a  French  name,  " Fragile." 

Then,  being  come  to  names,  they  told  their  own. 
Hers,  she  said,  was  Lillian  May. 

"But  your  uncle,  now — that  gentleman — he  called 
you  Nancy  when  you  came  in."  He  waited  for  her 
solving  of  this 

"Oh,  Uncle  Doctor  doesn't  know  it  yet,  what  my 
real  name  is.  They  call  me  Nancy,  but  that's  a  very 
disagreeable  name,  so  I  took  Lillian  May  for  my  real 
name.  But  I  tell  very  few  persons,"  she  added,  im 
portantly.  Here  he  was  at  home;  he  knew  about 
choosing  a  good  name. 

"Did  you  give  up  the  gold-piece  you  found?"  he 
asked.  But  this  puzzled  her. 

"'A  good  name  is  rather  to  be  chosen  than  great 
riches/"  he  reminded  her.  "Didn't  you  find  a  gold- 
piece  like  Ben  Holt  did  ?" 

But  it  seemed  she  had  never  found  anything.  Indeed, 
once  she  had  lost  a  dime,  even  on  the  way  to  spending 
it  for  five  candy  bananas  and  five  jaw-breakers. 
Plainly  she  had  chosen  her  good  name  without  knowing 
of  the  case  of  Ben  Holt.  Then  he  promised  to  show 
her  something  the  most  wonderful  in  all  the  world, 
which  she  would  never  believe  without  seeing  it,  and  led 
her  to  where  the  candy  cane  towered  to  their  shoulders 
in  its  corner.  He  saw  at  once  that  it  meant  less  to  her 
than  it  did  to  him. 

"Oh,  it's  a  candy  cane!"  she  said,  calling  it  a  candy 
cane  commonly,  with  not  even  a  hush  of  tone,  as  one 


26  THE  SEEKER 

would  say  "a  brick  house"  or  "a  gold  watch,"  or 
anything.  She,  promptly  detecting  his  disappoint 
ment  at  her  coldness,  tried  to  simulate  the  fervour  of  an 
initiate,  but  this  may  never  be  done  so  as  to  deceive  any 
one  wh6  has  truly  sensed  the  occult  and  incommunica 
ble  virtue  of  the  candy  cane.  For  one  thing,  she  kept 
repeating  the  words  " candy  cane"  baldly,  whenever  she 
could  find  a  place  for  them  in  her  soulless  praise; 
whereas  an  initiate  would  not  once  have  uttered  the 
term,  but  would  have  looked  in  silence.  Another 
initiate,  equally  silent  by  his  side,  would  have  known 
him  to  be  of  the  brotherhood.  Perhaps  at  the  end 
there  would  have  been  respectful  wonder  expressed  as 
to  how  long  it  would  stay  unbroken  and  so  untasted. 
Still  he  was  not  unkind  to  her,  except  in  ways  requisite 
to  a  mere  decent  showing  forth  of  his  now  ascertained 
superiority.  He  helped  her  to  a  canter  on  the  new 
horse;  and  even  pretended  a  polite  and  superficial 
interest  in  the  doll,  Fragile,  which  she  took  up  often. 
Being  a  girl,  she  had  to  be  humoured  in  that  manner. 
But  any  boy  could  see  that  the  thing  went  to  sleep  by 
turning  its  eyes  inside  out,  and  its  garters  were  painted 
on  its  fat  legs.  These  things  he  was,  of  course,  too 
much  the  gentleman  to  point  out. 

When  the  Doctor  and  his  host  came  down  stairs  late 
in  the  afternoon,  the  little  boy  and  girl  were  fairly 
friendly.  Only  there  was  talk  of  kissing  at  the  door, 
started  by  the  little  girl's  uncle,  and  this  the  little  boy 
of  course  could  not  consider,  even  though  he  suddenly 
wished  it  of  all  things — for  he  had  never  kissed  any 
one  but  his  father  and  mother.  He  had  told  Clytie  it 
made  him  sick  to  be  kissed.  Now,  when  the  little  girl 
called  to  him  as  if  it  were  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world, 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  CANDY  CANE   27 

he  could  not  go.  And  then  she  stabbed  him  by  falsely 
kissing  the  complacent  Allan  standing  by,  who  there 
upon  smirked  in  sickening  deprecation  and  promptly 
rubbed  his  cheek. 

Not  until  the  pair  were  out  in  the  street  did  his  man- 
strength  come  back  to  him,  and  then  he  could  only  burn 
with  indignation  at  her  and  at  Allan.  He  wondered 
that  no  one  was  shocked  at  him  for  feeling  as  he  did. 
But,  as  they  seemed  not  to  notice  him,  he  rode  his  horse 
again.  No  mad  gallop  now,  but  a  slow,  moody  jog — a 
pace  ripe  for  any  pessimism. 

"Clyde!"  he  called  imperiously,  after  a  little.  "Do 
you  think  there's  a  real  bone  in  this  horse — like  a 
regular  horse?" 

Clytie  responded  from  the  dining-room  with  a 
placid  "I  guess  so." 

"If  I  sawed  into  its  neck,  would  the  saw  go  right 
into  a  real  bone?" 

" My  suz!  what  talk!     Well?" 

"I  know  there  ain't  any  bone  in  there,  like  a  regular 
horse.  It's  just  a  wooden  bone." 

Nor  was  this  his  last  negative  thought  of  the  day. 
It  came  to  him  then  and  there  with  cruel,  biting  plain 
ness,  that  no  one  else  in  the  house  felt  as  he  did  toward 
his  chief  treasure.  Allan  didn't.  He  had  spent 
hardly  a  moment  with  it.  Clytie  didn't;  he  had  seen 
her  pick  it  up  when  she  dusted  the  sitting-room;  there 
was  sacrilege  in  her  very  grasp  of  it;  and  his  grandfather 
seemed  hardly  to  know  of  its  existence.  The  little 
girl  who  had  chosen  the  good  name  of  Lillian  May 
might  have  been  excused;  but  not  these  others.  If 
his  grandfather  was  without  understanding  in  such  a 
matter,  in  what,  then,  could  he  be  trusted  ? 


28  THE  SEEKER 

He  descended  to  a  still  lower  plane  before  he  fell 
asleep  that  night.  Even  if  he  had  one  of  them,  he 
would  probably  never  have  a  whole  row,  graduated 
from  a  pigmy  to  a  mammoth,  to  hang  on  a  wire  across 
the  front  window,  after  the  manner  of  the  rich,  and 
dazzle  the  outer  world  into  envy.  The  mood  was  but 
slightly  chastened  when  he  remembered,  as  he  now  did, 
that  on  last  Christmas  he  had  received  only  one  pre 
tentious  candy  rooster,  falsely  hollow,  and  a  very 
uninteresting  linen  handkerchief  embroidered  with 
some  initials  not  his  own.  He  fell  asleep  on  a  brutal 
reflection  that  the  cane  could  be  broken  accidentally 
and  eaten. 


V 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  BIG  HOUSE  OF  PORTENTS 

IN  this  big  white  house  the  little  boys  had  been  born 
again  to  a  life  that  was  all  strange.  Novel  was  the  outer 
house  with  its  high  portico  and  fluted  pillars,  its  vast 
areas  of  white  wall  set  with  shutters  of  relentless  green ; 
its  stout,  red  chimneys;  its  surprises  of  gabled  window; 
its  big  front  door  with  the  polished  brass  knocker  and 
the  fan-light  above.  Quite  as  novel  was  the  inner 
house,  and  quite  as  novel  was  this  new  life  to  its  very 
center. 

For  one  thing,  while  the  joy  of  living  had  hitherto  been 
all  but  flawless  for  the  little  boys,  the  disadvantages  of 
being  dead  were  now  brought  daily  to  their  notice.  In 
morning  and  evening  prayer,  in  formal  homily,  informal 
caution,  spontaneous  warning,  in  the  sermon  at  church, 
and  the  lesson  of  the  Sabbath-school,  was  their  ex 
cessive  liability  to  divine  wrath  impressed  upon  them 
"when  the  memory  is  wax  to  receive  and  marble  to 
retain." 

Within  the  home  Clytie  proved  to  be  an  able  coadjutor 
of  the  old  man,  who  was,  indeed,  constrained  and 
awkward  in  the  presence  of  the  younger  child,  and 
perhaps  a  thought  too  severe  with  the  elder.  But 
Clytie,  who  had  said  "I'll  make  my  own  of  them,"  was 
tireless  and  not  without  ingenuity  in  opening  the  way 
of  life  to  their  little  feet. 

29 


30  THE  SEEKER 

Allan,  the  elder,  gifted  with  a  distinct  talent  for 
memorising,  she  taught  many  instructive  bits  chosen 
from  the  scrap-book  in  which  her  literary  treasures 
were  preserved.  His  rendition  of  a  passage  from  one  of 
Mr.  Spurgeon's  sermons  became  so  impressive  under 
her  drilling  that  the  aroma  of  his  lost  youth  stole  back 
to  the  nostrils  of  the  old  man  while  he  listened. 

"There  is  a  place,"  the  boy  would  declaim  loweringly, 
and  with  fitting  gesture,  with  hypnotic  eye  fastened  on 
the  cowering  Bernal,  "where  the  only  music  is  the 
symphony  of  damned  souls.  Where  howling,  groaning, 
moaning,  and  gnashing  of  teeth  make  up  the  horrible 
concert.  There  is  a  place  where  demons  fly  swift  as 
air,  with  whips  of  knotted  burning  wire,  torturing  poor 
souls;  where  tongues  on  fire  with  agony  burn  the  roofs 
of  mouths  that  shriek  in  vain  for  drops  of  water — that 
water  all  denied.  When  thou  diest,  O  Sinner " 

But  at  this  point  the  smaller  boy  usually  became  rest 
less  and  would  have  to  go  to  the  kitchen  for  a  drink  of 
water.  Always  he  became  thirsty  here.  And  he  would 
linger  over  his  drink  till  Clytie  called  him  back  to  admire 
his  brother  in  the  closing  periods. 

—"but  at  the  resurrection  thy  soul  will  be  united  to 
thy  body  and  then  thou  wilt  have  twin  hells;  body  and 
soul  will  be  tormented  together,  each  brimful  of  agony, 
the  soul  sweating  in  its  utmost  pores  drops  of  blood,  thy 
body  from  head  to  foot  suffused  with  pain,  thy  bones 
cracking  in  the  fire,  thy  pulse  rattling  at  an  enormous 
rate  in  agony,  every  nerve  a  string  on  which  the  devil 
shall  play  his  diabolical  tune  of  hell's  unutterable 
torment." 

Here  the  little  boy  always  listened  at  his  wrist  to 
know  if  his  pulse  rattled  yet,  and  felt  glad  indeed  that 


THE  BIG  HOUSE  OF  PORTENTS          31 

he  was  a  Presbyterian,  instead  of  being  in  that  dreadful 
place  with  Jews  and  Papists  and  Milo  Barrus,  who 
spelled  God  with  a  little  g. 

As  to  his  own  performance,  Clytie  found  that  he 
memorised  prose  with  great  difficulty.  A  week  did 
she  labour  to  teach  him  one  brief  passage  from  a 
lecture  of  Francis  Murphy,  depicting  the  fate  of  the 
drunkard.  She  bribed  him  to  fresh  effort  with  every 
carnal  lure  the  pantry  afforded,  but  invariably  he 
failed  at  a  point  where  the  soul  of  the  toper  was  going 
"down — down — DOWN — into  the  bottomless  depths 
of  HELL!"  Here  he  became  pitiful  in  his  ineffective 
ness,  and  Clytie  had  at  last  to  admit  that  he  would 
never  be  the  elocutionist  Allan  was.  " But,  my  Land! " 
she  would  say,  at  each  of  his  failures,  "if  you  only  could 
do  it  the  way  Mr.  Murphy  did — and  then  he'd  talk 
so  plain  and  natural,  too, — just  like  he  was  associating 
with  a  body  in  their  own  parlour — and  so  pathetic  it 
made  a  body  simply  bawl.  My  suz!  how  I  did  love  to 
set  and  hear  that  man  tell  what  a  sot  he'd  been!" 

However,  Clytie  happily  discovered  that  the  littler 
boy's  memory  was  more  tenacious  of  rhyme,  so  she 
successfully  taught  him  certain  metrical  conceits  that 
had  been  her  own  to  learn  in  girlhood,  beginning  with 
pithy  couplets  such  as: 

"Xerxes  the  Great  did  die 
And  so  must  you  and  I." 

"As  runs  the  glass 
Man's  life  must  pass." 

"Thy  life  to  mend 
God's  book  attend." 


32  THE  SEEKER 

From  these  it  was  a  step  entirely  practicable  to 
longer  warnings,  one  of  her  favourites  being: 

UNCERTAINTY  OF  LIFE 

"I  in  the  burying-place  may  see 
Graves  shorter  there  than  I. 
From  Death's  arrest  no  age  is  free, 
Young  children,  too,  may  die. 

"My  God,  may  such  an  awful  sight 

Awakening  be  to  me; 
Oh,  that  by  early  grace,  I  might 
For  death  prepared  be!" 

She  was  not  a  little  proud  of  Bernal  the  day  he 
recited  this  to  Grandfather  Delcher  without  a  break, 
though  he  began  the  second  stanza  somewhat  timidly, 
because  it  sounded  so  much  like  swearing. 

Nor  did  she  neglect  to  teach  both  boys  the  lessons  of 
Holy  Writ. 

Of  a  Sabbath  afternoon  she  would  read  how  God 
ordered  the  congregation  to  stone  the  son  of  Shelomith 
for  blasphemy;  or,  perhaps,  how  David  fetched  the 
Ark  of  the  Covenant  from  Kirjath-jearim  on  a  new 
cart;  and  of  how  the  Lord  "made  a  breach"  upon  Uzza 
for  wickedly  putting  his  hand  upon  the  Ark  to  save  it 
when  the  oxen  stumbled.  The  little  boys  were  much 
impressed  by  this  when  they  discovered,  after  question 
ing,  exactly  what  it  meant  to  Uzza  to  have  "a  breach" 
made  upon  him.  The  unwisdom  of  touching  an  Ark 
of  the  Covenant,  under  any  circumstances,  could  not 
have  been  more  clearly  brought  home  to  them.  They 
liked  also  to  hear  of  the  instruments  played  upon  before 


THE  BIG  HOUSE  OF  PORTENTS        33 

the  Lord  by  those  that  went  ahead  of  the  Ark;  harps, 
psalteries,  and  timbrels;  cornets,  cymbals,  and  instru 
ments  made  of  fir-wood. 

Then  there  was  David,  who  danced  at  the  head  of 
the  procession  "girded  with  a  linen  ephod,"  which, 
somehow,  sounded  insufficient ;  and  indeed,  it  appeared 
that  Clytie  was  inclined  to  side  wholly  with  Michal, 
David's  wife,  who  looked  through  a  window  and  despised 
him  when  she  saw  him  "  leaping  and  dancing  before  the 
Lord,"  uncovered  save  for  the  presumably  inadequate 
ephod  of  linen.  She,  Clytie,  thought  it  not  well  that 
a  man  of  David's  years  and  honour  should  "make 
himself  ridiculous  that  way." 

So  it  was  early  in  this  new  life  that  the  little  boys  came 
to  walk  as  it  behooves  those  to  walk  who  shall  taste 
death.  And  to  the  littler  boy,  prone  to  establish  re 
lations  and  likenesses  among  his  mental  images,  the 
big  house  itself  would  at  times  be  more  than  itself  to 
him.  There  was  the  Front  Room.  Only  the  use  of 
capital  letters  can  indicate  the  manner  in  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  regard  it.  Each  Friday,  when  it  was 
opened  for  a  solemn  dusting,  he  timidly  pierced  its 
stately  gloom  from  the  threshold  of  its  door.  It 
seemed  to  be  an  abode  of  dead  joys — a  place  where  they 
had  gone  to  reign  forever  in  fixed  and  solemn  festival. 
And  while  he  could  not  see  God  there,  actually,  neither 
in  the  horse-hair  sofa  nor  the  bleak  melodeon  sur 
mounted  by  tall  vases  of  dyed  grass,  nor  in  the  center- 
table  with  its  cemeterial  top,  nor  under  the  empty  horse 
hair  and  green-rep  chairs,  set  at  expectant  angles,  nor 
in  the  cold,  tall  stove,  ornately  set  with  jewels  of 
polished  nickel,  and  surely  not  in  the  somewhat  frivo 
lous  air-castle  of  cardboard  and  scarlet  zephyr  that 


34  THE  SEEKER 

fluttered  from  the  ceiling — yet  in  and  over  and  through 
the  dark  of  it  was  a  forbidding  spirit  that  breathed  out 
the  cold  mustiness  of  the  tomb — an  all-pervading  thing 
of  gloom  and  majesty  which  was  nothing  in  itself,  yet  a 
quality  and  part  of  everything,  even  of  himself  when  he 
looked  in.  And  this  quality  or  spirit  he  conceived  to  be 
God — the  more  as  it  came  to  him  in  a  flash  of  divina 
tion  that  the  superb  and  immaculate  coal-stove  must 
be  like  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant. 

Thus  the  Front  Room  became  what  "Heaven" 
meant  to  him  when  he  heard  the  word — a  place 
difficult  of  access,  to  be  prized  not  so  much  for 
what  it  actually  afforded  as  for  what  it  enabled 
one  to  avoid;  a  place  whose  very  joys,  indeed, 
would  fill  with  dismay  any  but  the  absolutely  pure 
in  heart;  a  place  of  restricted  area,  moreover,  while 
all  outside  was  a  speciously  pleasant  hell,  teeming 
with  every  potent  solicitation  of  evil,  of  games  and 
sweets  and  joyous  idleness. 

The  word  "God,"  then,  became  at  this  time  a  word 
of  evil  import  to  the  littler  boy,  as  sinister  as  the 
rustle  of  black  silk  on  a  Sabbath  morning,  when 
he  must  walk  sedately  to  church  with  his  hand  in 
Clyde's,  with  scarce  an  envious  glance  at  the  proud, 
happy  loafers,  who,  clean-shaven  and  in  their  own 
Sabbath  finery,  sat  on  the  big  boxes  in  front  of  the 
shut  stores  and  whittled  and  laughed  and  gossiped 
rarely,  like  very  princes. 

To  Clytie  he  once  said,  of  something  for  which  he  was 
about  to  ask  her  permission,  "Oh,  it  must  be  awful, 
awful  wicked — because  I  want  to  do  it  very,  very  much ! 
— not  like  going  to  church." 

Yet  the  ascetic  life  was  not  devoid  of  compensation — 


THE  BIG  HOUSE  OF  PORTENTS        35 

particularly  when  Milo  Barrus,  the  village  atheist,  was 
pointed  out  to  him  among  the  care-free  Sabbath  loafers. 

Clytie  predicted  most  direly  interesting  things  of  him 
if  he  did  not  come  to  the  Feet  before  he  died.  "But 
I  believe  he  will  come  to  the  Feet/'  she  added,  "even  if 
it's  on  his  very  death-bed,  with  the  cold  sweat  standing 
on  his  brow.  It  would  make  a  lovely  tract — him 
coming  to  the  Feet  at  the  very  last  moment  and  his 
face  lighting  up  and  everything." 

The  little  boy,  however,  rather  hoped  Milo  Barrus 
wouldn't  come  to  the  Feet.  It  was  more  worth  while 
going  to  Heaven  if  he  didn't,  and  if  you  could  look 
down  and  see  him  after  it  was  too  late  for  him  to  come. 
During  church  that  morning  he  chiefly  wondered  about 
the  Feet.  Once,  long  ago,  it  seemed,  he  had  been  with 
his  dear  father  in  a  very  big  city,  and  out  of  the  maze 
of  all  its  tangled  marvels  of  sound  and  sight  he  had 
brought  and  made  his  own  forever  one  image:  the 
image  of  a  mighty  foot  carved  in  marble,  set  on  a 
pedestal  at  the  bottom  of  a  dark  stairway.  It  had  been 
severed  at  the  ankle,  and  around  the  top  was  modestly 
chiselled  a  border  of  lace.  It  was  a  foot  larger  than  his 
whole  body,  and  he  had  passed  eager,  questioning  hands 
over  its  whole  surface,  pressing  it  from  heel  to  each 
perfect  toe.  Of  course,  this  must  be  one  of  the  Feet 
to  which  Milo  Barrus  might  come;  he  wondered  if  the 
other  would  be  up  that  dark  stairway,  and  if  Milo 
Barrus  would  go  up  to  look  for  it — and  what  did  you 
have  to  do  when  you  got  to  the  Feet  ?  The  possibility 
of  not  getting  to  them,  or  of  finding  only  one  of  them, 
began  to  fill  his  inner  life  quite  as  the  sombre  shadows 
filled  and  made  a  presence  of  themselves  in  the  Front 
Room — particularly  of  a  Sabbath,  when  one  must  be 


36  THE  SEEKER 

uncommonly  good  because  God  seemed  to  take  more 
notice  than  on  week-days. 

During  the  week,  indeed,  Clytie  often  relaxed  her 
austerity.  She  would  even  read  to  him  verses  of  her 
own  composition,  of  which  he  never  tired  and  of  which 
he  learned  to  repeat  not  a  few.  One  of  her  pastoral 
poems  told  of  a  visit  she  had  once  made  to  the  home 
of  a  relative  in  a  neighbouring  State.  It  began  thus: 

"New  Hampshire  is  a  pretty  place, 

I  did  go  there  to  see 
The  maple-sugar  being  boiled 
By  one  that's  dear  to  me." 

Bernal  came  to  know  it  all  as  far  as  the  stanza — 

"I  loved  to  hear  the  banjo  hum, 

It  sounds  so  very  calmly; 
If  a  happy  home  you  wish  to  find, 
Visit  the  Thompson  family." 

After  this  the  verses  became  less  direct,  and,  to  his 
mind,  rather  wordy  and  purposeless,  though  he  never 
failed  of  joy  in  the  mere  verbal  music  of  them  when 
Clytie  read,  with  sometimes  a  kind  of  warm  tremble 
in  her  voice — 

"At  lovers'  promises  fates  grow  merrilee; 
Some  are  made  on  land, 
Some  on  the  deep  sea. 
Love  does  sometimes  leave 
Streams  of  tears." 

He  thought  she  looked  very  beautiful  when  she  read 
this,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  crying,  with  her  big, 
square  face,  her  fat  cheeks  that  looked  like  russet 
apples,  her  very  tiny  black  moustache,  her  smooth,  oily 


THE  BIG  HOUSE   OF  PORTENTS        37 

black  hair  with  a  semicircle  of  tight  little  curls  over  her 
brow,  and  her  beautiful,  big,  rounded,  shining  forehead. 
Yet  he  preferred  her  poems  of  action,  like  that  of 
Salmon  Faubel,  whose  bride  became  so  homesick  in 
Edom  that  she  was  in  a  way  to  perish,  so  that  Salmon 
took  her  to  her  home  and  found  work  there  for  himself. 
He  even  sang  one  catchy  couplet  of  this  to  music  of  his 
own: 

"For  her  dear  sake  whom  he  did  pity, 
He  took  her  back  to  Jersey  City/' 

But  the  Sabbath  came  inexorably  to  bring  his  sinful 
nature  before  him,  just  as  the  door  of  the  Front  Room 
was  opened  each  week  to  remind  him  of  the  awful  joys 
of  Heaven.  And  then  his  mind  was  like  the  desert  of 
shifting  sands.  There  were  so  many  things  to  be  done 
and  not  done  if  one  were  to  avert  the  wrath  of  this  God 
that  made  the  Front  Room  a  cavern  of  terror,  that 
rumbled  threateningly  in  the  prayer  of  his  grandfather 
and  shook  the  young  minister  to  a  white  passion  each 
Sabbath. 

There  was  being  good — which  was  not  to  commit 
murder  or  be  an  atheist  like  Milo  Barrus  and  spell  God 
with  a  little  g;  and  there  was  Coming  to  the  Feet — not 
so  simple  as  it  sounded,  he  could  very  well  tell  them; 
and  there  was  the  matter  of  Blood.  There  were 
hymns,  for  example,  that  left  him  confused.  The 
"fountain  filled  with  blood  drawn  from  Immanuers 
veins"  sounded  interesting.  Vividly  he  saw  the 
"sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood"  losing  all  their 
guilty  stains.  It  was  entirely  reasonable,  and  with 
an  assumption  of  carelessness  he  glanced  cautiously 
over  his  own  body  each  morning  to  see  if  his  guilty 


38  THE  SEEKER 

stains  showed  yet.  But  who  was  Immanuel?  And 
where  was  this  excellent  fountain? 

Then  there  was  being  "washed  in  the  blood  of  the 
lamb,"  which  was  considerably  simpler —  except  for  the 
matter  of  its  making  one  "whiter  than  snow."  He  was 
doubtful  of  this  result,  unless  it  was  only  poetry-writing 
which  doesn't  mean  everything  it  says.  He  meant  to 
try  this  sometime,  when  he  could  get  a  lamb,  both  as  a 
means  of  grace  and  as  a  desirable  experiment. 

But  plunging  into  the  fountain  filled  with  blood 
sounded  far  more  important  and  effectual — if  it  were 
only  practicable.  As  the  sinners  came  out  of  this  flood 
he  thought  they  must  look  as  Clytie  did  in  her  scarlet 
flannel  petticoat  the  night  he  was  taken  with  croup  and 
she  came  running  with  the  Magnetic  Ointment — even 
redder! 

The  big  white  house  of  Grandfather  Delcher  and 
Clytie,  in  short,  was  a  house  in  which  to  be  terrified  and 
happy;  anxious  and  well-fed.  And  if  its  inner  recesses 
took  on  too  much  gloomy  portent  one  could  always  fly 
to  the  big  yard  where  grew  monarch  elms  and  maples 
and  a  row  of  formal  spruces;  where  the  lawn  on  one  side 
was  bordered  with  beds  of  petunias  and  fuschias,  tiger- 
lilies  and  dahlias;  where  were  a  great  clump  of  white 
lilacs  and  many  bushes  of  yellow  roses;  a  lawn  that 
stretched  unbrokenly  to  the  windows  of  the  next  big 
house  where  lived  the  gentle  stranger  with  the  soft, 
warm  little  voice  who  had  chosen  the  good  name  of 
Lillian  May. 

Life  was  severely  earnest  but  by  no  means  impractica 
ble. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  LIFE  OF  CRIME  is  APPRAISED  AND  CHOSEN 

IT  came  to  seem  expedient  to  Bernal,  however,  in  the 
first  spring  of  his  new  life,  to  make  a  final  choice  between 
early  death  and  a  life,  of  sin.  Matters  came  to  press 
upon  him,  and  since  virtue  was  useful  only  to  get  one 
into  Heaven,  it  was  not  worth  the  effort  unless  one 
meant  to  die  at  once.  This  was  an  alternative  not 
without  its  lures,  despite  the  warnings  preached  all 
about  him.  It  would  surely  be  interesting  to  die,  if  one 
had  come  properly  to  the  Feet.  Even  coming  to  but 
one  of  the  Feet,  as  he  had,  might  make  it  still  more 
interesting.  Perhaps  he  would  not,  for  this  reason,  be 
always  shut  up  in  Heaven.  In  his  secret  heart  was  a 
lively  desire  to  see  just  what  they  did  to  Milo  Barrus,  if 
he  should  continue  to  spell  God  with  a  little  g  on  his 
very  death-bed — that  is,  if  he  could  see  it  without  dis 
advantage  to  himself.  But  then,  you  could  save  that 
up,  because  you  must  die  sometime,  like  Xerxes  the 
Great;  and  meantime,  there  was  the  life  of  evil  now 
opening  wide  to  the  vision  with  all  enticing  refresh 
ments. 

First,  it  meant  no  school.  He  had  ceased  to  picture 
relief  in  this  matter  by  the  school-house  burning  some 
morning,  preferably  a  Monday  morning,  one  second 
after  school  had  taken  in.  For  a  month  he  had  daily 
dramatised  to  himself  the  building's  swift  destruction 

39 


40  THE  SEEKER 

amid  the  kind  and  merry  flames.  But  Allan,  to  whom 
he  had  one  day  hinted  the  possibility  of  this  gracious 
occurrence,  had  reminded  him  brutally  that  they  would 
probably  have  school  in  the  Methodist  church  until  a 
new  school-house  could  be  built.  For  Allan  loved  his 
school  and  his  teacher. 

But  a  life  of  evil  promised  other  joys  besides  this 
negative  one  of  no  school.  In  his  latest  Sunday-school 
book,  Ralph  Overton,  the  good  boy,  not  only  attended 
school  slavishly,  so  that  at  thirteen  he  "could  write  a 
good  business  hand";  but  he  practised  those  little  tricks 
of  picking  up  every  pin,  always  untying  the  string  instead 
of  cutting  it,  keeping  his  shoes  neatly  polished  and  his 
hands  clean,  which  were,  in  a  simpler  day,  held  to  lay 
the  foundations  of  commercial  success  in  our  republic. 
Besides  this,  Ralph  had  to  be  bright  and  cheery  to  every 
one,  to  work  for  his  widowed  mother  after  school;  and 
every  Saturday  afternoon  he  went,  sickeningly  of  his 
own  accord,  to  split  wood  for  an  aged  and  poor  lady. 
This  lady  seemed  to  Bernal  to  do  nothing  much  but  burn 
a  tremendous  lot  of  stove-wood,  but  presently  she 
turned  out  to  be  the  long-lost  cousin  of  Mr.  Granville 
Parkinson,  the  Great  Banker  from  the  City,  who  there 
upon  took  cheery  Ralph  there  and  gave  him  a  position 
in  the  bank  where  he  could  be  honest  and  industrious 
and  respectful  to  his  superiors.  Such  was  the  barren 
tale  of  Virtue's  gain.  But  contrasted  with  Ralph 
Overton  in  this  book  was  one  Budd  Jackson,  who  led  a 
life  of  voluptuous  sloth,  except  at  times  when  the  evil 
one  moved  him  to  activity.  At  these  bad  moments  he 
might  go  bobbing  for  catfish  on  a  Sabbath,  or  purloin 
fruit  from  the  orchard  of  Farmer  Haskins  (who  would 
gladly  have  given  some  to  him  if  he  had  but  asked  for 


THE  LIFE  OF  CRIME  41 

it  civilly,  so  the  book  said);  or  he  might  bully  smaller 
boys  whom  he  met  on  their  way  to  school,  taking  their 
sailor  hats  away  from  them,  or  jeering  coarsely  at  their 
neatly  brushed  garments.  When  Budd  broke  a  window 
in  the  Methodist  parsonage  with  his  slung-shot  and 
tried  to  lie  it  on  to  Ralph  Overton,  he  seemed  to  have 
given  way  utterly  to  his  vicious  nature.  He  was  known 
soon  thereafter  to  have  drunk  liquor  and  played  a  game 
called  pin-pool  with  a  " flashy  stranger"  at  the  tavern; 
hence  no  one  was  surprised  when  he  presently  ran  oft' 
with  a  circus,  became  an  infidel,  and  perished  miserably 
in  the  toils  of  vice. 

This  touch  about  the  circus,  well-intended,  to  be  sure, 
was  yet  fatal  to  all  good  the  tale  might  have  done  the 
little  boy.  Clytie,  who  read  most  of  the  story  to  him, 
declared  Budd  Jackson  to  be  "a  regular  mean  one." 
But  in  his  heart  Bernal,  thinking  all  at  once  of  the 
circus,  sickened  unutterably  of  Virtue.  To  drive 
eight  spirited  white  horses,  seated  high  on  one  of  those 
gay  closed  wagons — those  that  went  through  the  street 
with  that  delicious  hollow  rumble — hearing  perchance 
the  velvet  tread,  or  the  clawing  and  snarling  of  some 
pent  ferocity — a  leopard,  a  lion,  what  not;  to  hear  each 
day  that  muffled,  flattened  beating  of  a  bass  drum  and 
cymbals  far  within  the  big  tent,  quick  and  still  more 
quickly,  denoting  to  the  experienced  ear  that  pink  and 
spangled  Beauty  danced  on  the  big  white  horse  at  a 
deathless  gallop;  to  know  that  one  might  freely  enter 
that  tented  elysium — if  it  were  possible  he  would  run 
off  with  a  circus  though  it  meant  that  he  had  the 
morals  of  a  serpent! 

Now,  eastward  from  the  big  house  lay  the  village 
and  its  churches:  thither  was  tame  virtue.  But  west- 


42  THE  SEEKER 

ward  lay  a  broad  field  stretching  off  to  an  orchard,  and 
beyond  swelled  a  gentle  hill,  mellow  in  the  distance. 
Still  more  remotely  far,  at  the  hill's  rim,  was  a  blur  of 
woods  beyond  which  the  sun  went  down  each  night. 
This,  in  the  little  boy's  mind,  was  the  highway  to  the 
glad  free  Life  of  Evil.  Many  days  he  looked  to  that 
western  wood  when  the  sky  was  a  gush  of  colour  behind 
its  furred  edge,  perceiving  all  manner  of  allurements  to 
beckon  him,  hearing  them  plead,  feeling  them  tug. 
Daily  his  spirit  quickened  within  him  to  their  solicita 
tions,  leaping  out  and  beyond  him  in  some  magic  way 
to  bring  back  veritable  meanings  and  values  of  the 
future. 

Then  a  day  came  when  the  desire  to  be  off  was  no 
longer  resistible.  There  was  a  month  of  school  yet;  an 
especially  bitter  thought,  for  had  he  not  lately  been  out 
of  school  a  week  with  mumps;  and  during  that  very 
week  had  not  the  teacher's  father  died,  so  that  he  was 
cheated  out  of  the  resulting  three-days'  vacation,  other 
children  being  free  while  he  lay  on  a  bed  of  pain — if 
you  tasted  pickles  or  any  sour  thing  ?  Not  only  was 
it  useless  to  try  to  learn  to  write  "a  good  business  hand," 
like  Ralph  Overton — he  took  the  phrase  to  mean  one  of 
those  pictured  hands  that  were  always  pointing  to 
things  in  the  newspaper  advertisements — but  there 
was  the  circus  and  other  evil  things — and  he  was  getting 
on  in  years. 

It  was  a  Saturday  afternoon.  To-morrow  would  be 
too  late.  He  knew  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  start 
on  the  Sabbath,  even  in  a  career  that  was  to  be  all 
wickedness.  In  the  grape-arbour  he  massed  certain 
articles  necessary  for  the  expedition:  a  very  small  strip 
of  carpet  on  which  he  meant  to  sleep;  a  copy  of  "  Golden 


THE  LIFE  OF  CRIME  43 

Days"  with  an  article  giving  elaborate  instructions  for 
camping  in  the  wilderness.  He  was  compelled  to 
disregard  all  of  them,  but  there  was  comfort  and  sus 
tenance  in  the  article  itself.  Then  there  was  the  gun 
that  came  at  Christmas.  It  shot  a  cork  as  far  as  the 
string  would  let  it  go,  with  a  fairly  satisfying  report 
(he  would  have  that  string  off,  once  he  was  in  the 
woods!).  Also  there  were  three  glass  alleys,  two  agate 
taws  and  thirty-eight  commies.  And  to  hold  his  outfit 
there  was  a  rather  sizable  box  which  he  with  his  own 
hands  had  papered  inside  and  out  from  a  remnant  of 
gorgeously  flowered  wall-paper. 

When  all  was  ready  he  went  in  to  break  the  news  to 
Clytie.  She,  busy  with  her  baking,  heard  him  declare : 

"Now — I'm  going  to  leave  this  place!"  with  the 
look  of  one  who  will  not  be  coaxed  nor  in  any  manner 
dissuaded.  He  thought  she  took  it  rather  coolly, 
though  Allan  ran,  as  promptly  as  he  could  have  wished, 
to  tell  his  grandfather. 

"I'm  going  to  be  a  regular  mean  one — worse'n 
Budd  Jackson!"  he  continued  to  Clytie.  He  was  glad 
to  see  that  this  brought  her  to  her  senses. 

"Will  you  stay  if  I  give  you — an  orange?" 

"  No,  sir; — you'll  never  set  eyes  on  me  again ! " 

"Oh,  now! — two  oranges?" 

"I  can't — I  got  to  go!"  in  a  voice  tense  with  effort. 

"All  right!     Then  I'll  give  them  to  Allan." 

She  continued  to  take  brown  loaves  from  the  oven 
and  to  put  other  loaves  in  to  bake,  while  he  stood 
awkwardly  by,  loath  to  part  from  her.  Allan  came 
back  breathless. 

"  Grandpa  says  you  can  go  as  far  as  you  like  and  you 
needn't  come  back  till  you  get  ready!" 


44  THE  SEEKER 

He  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  absently  ate 
a  warm  cookie  from  the  jarful  at  his  hand.  He 
thought  this  seemed  not  quite  the  correct  attitude  to  take 
toward  him,  yet  he  did  not  waver.  They  would  be 
sorry  enough  in  a  few  days,  when  it  was  too  late. 

"I  guess  I  better  take  a  few  of  these  along  with  me," 
he  said,  stowing  cookies  in  the  pockets  of  his  jacket. 
He  would  have  liked  one  of  the  big  preserved  peaches 
all  punctuated  with  cloves,  but  he  saw  no  way  to  carry 
it,  and  felt  really  unable  to  eat  it  on  the  spot. 

"Well,  good-bye!"  he  called  to  Clytie,  turning  back 
to  her  from  the  door. 

"Good-bye!     Won't  you  shake  hands  with  me?" 

Very  solemnly  he  shook  her  big,  floury  hand. 

"  Now — could  I  take  Penny  along  ?  "  (Penny  was  an 
inconsequential  dog  that  had  been  given  to  Clytie  by  one 
whom  she  called  Cousin  Bill  J.) 

"Yes,  you'll  need  a  dog  to  keep  the  animals  off. 
Now  be  sure  you  write  to  us — at  least  twice  a  year — 
don't  forget!"  And,  brutally  before  his  very  eyes,  she 
handed  the  sniffing  and  virtuous  Allan  two  of  the 
largest,  most  goldenly  beautiful  oranges  ever  beheld  by 
man. 

Bitterly  the  self-exiled  turned  from  this  harrowing 
scene  and  strode  toward  his  box. 

Here  ensued  a  fresh  complication.  Nancy,  who  had 
chosen  the  good  name  of  Lillian  May,  wanted  to  go 
with  him.  She,  too,  it  appeared,  was  fresh  from  a 
Sunday-school  book — one  in  which  a  girl  of  her  own  age 
was  so  proud  of  her  long  raven  curls  that  she  was  brought 
to  an  illness  and  all  her  hair  came  out.  There  was  a 
distressing  picture  of  this  little  girl  after  a  just  Provi 
dence  had  done  its  work  as  a  depilatory.  And  after 


THE  LIFE  OF  CRIME  45 

she  recovered  from  the  fever,  it  seemed,  she  had  cared  to 
do  nothing  but  read  the  Scriptures  to  bed-ridden  old 
ladies — even  after  a  good  deal  of  her  hair  came  in  again 
— though  it  didn't  curl  this  time.  The  only  pleasure  she 
ever  experienced  thereafter  was  that,  by  virtue  of  her 
now  singularly  angelic  character,  she  was  enabled  to 
convert  an  elderly  female  Papist — an  achievement  the 
joys  of  which  were  problematic,  both  to  Nancy  and  the 
little  boy.  Certainly,  whatever  converting  a  Papist 
might  be,  it  was  nothing  comparable  to  driving  a  red- 
and-green-and-gold  wagon  in  which  was  caged  the 
Scourge  of  the  Jungle. 

But  Nancy  could  not  go  with  him.  He  told  her  so 
plainly.  It  was  no  place  for  a  girl  beyond  that  hill 
where  they  commonly  drove  caged  beasts,  and  no  one 
ever  so  much  as  thought  of  Coming  to  the  Feet  or 
washing  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  or  writing  a  good 
business  hand  with  the  first  finger  of  it  pointing  out,  or 
anything. 

The  little  girl  pleaded,  promising  to  take  her  new  pink 
silk  parasol,  her  buff  buttoned  shoes,  a  Christmas  card 
with  real  snow  on  it,  shining  like  diamonds,  and 
Fragile,  her  best  doll.  The  thing  was  impossible. 
Then  she  wept. 

He  whistled  to  Penny,  who  came  barking  joyously — 
a  pretender  of  a  dog,  if  there  ever  was  one — and  they 
moved  off.  Weeping  after  them  went  Nancy — as  far 
as  the  first  fence,  between  two  boards  of  which  she  put 
her  head  and  sobbed  with  a  heavenly  bitterness;  for  to 
the  little  boy,  pushing  sternly  on,  her  tears  afforded  that 
certain  thrill  of  gratified  brutality  under  conscious 
rectitude,  the  capacity  for  which  is  among  those  matters 
by  which  Heaven  has  set  the  male  of  our  species  apart 


46  THE  SEEKER 

from  the  female.  The  sensation  would  have  been 
flawless  but  for  Allan's  lack  of  dignity:  from  the  top 
board  of  the  fence  he  held  aloft  in  either  hand  a  golden 
orange,  and  he  chanted  in  endless  inanity: 

Chink,  Chink  Chiraddam! 
Don't  you  wisht  you  had  'em? 

Chink,  Chink  Chiraddam! 

Don't  you  wisht  you  had  'em? 

Still  he  was  actually  and  triumphantly  off. 

And  here  should  be  recalled  the  saying  of  a  certain 
wise,  simple  man:  "If  our  failures  are  made  tragic  by 
courage  they  are  not  different  from  successes."  For  it 
came  about  that  the  subsequent  dignity  of  this  revolt 
was  to  be  wholly  in  its  courage. 

The  way  led  over  a  stretch  of  grassy  prairie  to  a 
fence.  This  surmounted,  there  came  a  ploughed  field, 
of  considerable  extent  to  one  carrying  an  inconvenient 
box.  At  the  farther  end  of  this  was  another  fence, 
and  beyond  this  an  ancient  orchard  with  a  grassy 
floor,  where  lingered  a  few  old  apple-trees,  under 
which  the  recumbent  cows,  chewing  and  placid,  dozed 
like  stout  old  ladies  over  their  knitting. 

Nearest  the  fence  was  an  aged,  gnarled  and  riven 
tree,  foolishly  decked  in  blossoms,  like  some  faded, 
wrinkled  dame,  fatuously  reluctant  to  leave  off  girlish 
finery.  Under  its  frivolous  branches  on  the  grassy 
sward  would  be  the  place  for  his  first  night's  halt — for 
the  magic  wood  just  this  side  of  the  sun  was  now  seen 
to  be  farther  off  than  he  had  once  supposed.  So  he 
spread  his  carpet,  arranged  the  contents  of  his  box 
neatly,  and  ate  half  his  food-supply,  for  one's  strength 
must  be  kept  up  in  these  affairs.  As  he  ate  he  looked 


THE  LIFE  OF  CRIME  47 

back  toward  the  big  house — now  left  forever — and 
toward  the  village  beyond.  The  spires  of  the  three 
churches  were  all  pointing  sternly  upward,  as  if  they 
would  mutely  direct  him  aright,  but  in  their  shelter  one 
must  submit  to  the  prosaic  trammels  of  decency.  It 
was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

He  longed  for  morning  to  come,  so  that  he  might  be 
up  and  on.  He  lay  down  on  his  mat  to  be  ready  for 
sleep,  and  watched  a  big  bird  far  above,  cutting  lazy 
graceful  figures  in  the  air,  like  a  fancy  skater.  Then, 
on  a  bough  above  him,  a  little  dusty-looking  bird  tried 
to  sing,  but  it  sounded  only  like  a  very  small  door 
creaking  on  tiny  rusted  hinges.  A  fat,  gluttonous  robin 
that  had  been  hopping  about  to  peer  at  him,  chirped  far 
more  cheerfully  as  it  flew  away. 

Just  at  this  point  he  suffered  a  real  adventure.  Eight 
cows  sauntered  up  interestedly  and  chewed  their  cuds 
at  him  in  unison,  standing  contemplative,  calculating, 
determined.  It  is  a  fact  in  natural  history  not  widely 
enough  recognised  that  the  domestic  cow  is  the  most 
ferocious  appearing  of  all  known  beasts — a  thing  to  be 
proved  by  any  who  will  survey  one  amid  strange  sur 
roundings,  with  a  mind  cleanly  disabused  of  precon 
ceptions.  A  visitor  from  another  planet,  for  example, 
knowing  nothing  of  our  fauna,  and  confronted  in  the 
forest  simultaneously  by  a  common  red  milch  cow  and 
the  notoriously  savage  black  leopard  of  the  Himalyas, 
would  instinctively  shun  the  cow  as  a  dangerous  beast 
and  confidingly  seek  to  fondle  the  pretty  leopard,  thus 
terminating  his  natural  history  researches  before  they 
were  fairly  begun. 

It  can  be  understood,  then,  that  a  moment  ensued 
when  the  little  boy  wavered  under  the  steady  questioning 


48  THE  SEEKER 

scrutiny  of  eight  large  and  powerful  cows,  all  chewing 
at  him  in  unison.  Yet,  even  so,  and  knowing,  more 
over,  that  strange  cows  are  ever  untrustworthy,  only  for 
a  moment  did  he  waver.  Then  his  new  straw  hat  was 
off  to  be  shaken  at  them  and  he  heaved  a  fierce 
"H-a-y-y-u-p!" 

At  this  they  started,  rather  indignantly,  seeming  to 
meditate  his  swift  destruction;  but  another  shout 
turned  and  routed  them,  and  he  even  chased  them  a 
little  way,  helped  now  by  the  inconsiderable  dog  who 
came  up  from  pretending  to  hunt  gophers. 

After  this  there  seemed  nothing  to  do  but  eat  the 
other  half  of  the  provisions  and  retire  again  for  the 
night.  Long  after  the  sun  went  down  behind  the 
magic  wood  he  lay  uneasily  on  his  lumpy  bed,  trying 
again  and  again  to  shut  his  eyes  and  open  them  to  find 
it  morning — which  was  the  way  it  always  happened  in 
the  west  bedroom  of  the  big  house  he  had  left  forever. 

But  it  was  different  here.  And  presently,  when  it 
seemed  nearly  dark  except  for  the  stars,  a  disgraceful 
thing  happened.  He  had  pictured  the  dog  as  faithful 
always  to  him,  refusing  in  the  end  even  to  be  taken  from 
over  his  dead  body.  But  the  treacherous  Penny  grew 
first  restive,  then  plainly  desirous  of  returning  to  his 
home.  At  last,  after  many  efforts  to  corrupt  the 
adventurer,  he  started  off  briskly  alone — cornerwise,  as 
little  dogs  seem  always  to  run — fleeing  shamelessly 
toward  that  east  where  shone  the  tame  lights  of  Virtue. 

Left  alone,  the  little  boy  began  strangely  to  re 
member  certain  phrases  from  a  tract  that  Clytie  had 
tried  to  teach  him — "the  moment  that  will  close  thy 
life  on  earth  and  begin  thy  song  in  heaven  or  thy  wail 
in  hell" — "impossible  to  go  from  the  haunts  of  sin  and 


THE  LIFE  OF  CRIME  49 

vice  to  the  presence  of  the  Lamb" — "the  torments  of 
an  eternal  hell  are  awaiting  thee" 

"To-night  may  be  thy  latest  breath, 
Thy  little  moment  here  be  done. 
Eternal  woe,  the  second  death, 
Awaits  the  Christ-rejecting  one." 

This  was  more  than  he  had  ever  before  been  able 
to  recall  of  such  matters.  He  wished  that  he  might 
have  forgotten  them  wholly.  Yet  so  was  he  turned 
again  to  better  things.  Gradually  he  began  to  have 
an  inkling  of  a  possibility  that  made  his  blood  icy 
— a  possibility  that  not  even  the  spectacle  of  Milo 
Barrus  having  interesting  things  done  to  him  could 
mitigate — namely,  a  vision  of  himself  in  the  same 
plight  with  that  person. 

Now  it  was  that  he  began  to  hear  Them  all  about 
him.  They  walked  stealthily  near,  passed  him  with 
sinister  rustlings,  and  whispered  over  him.  If 
They  had  only  talked  out — but  they  whispered — even 
laughing,  crying  and  singing  in  whispers.  This 
horror,  of  course,  was  not  long  to  be  endured.  Yet, 
even  so,  with  increasing  myriads  of  Them  all  about, 
rustling  and  whispering  their  awful  laughs  and  cries — 
it  was  no  ignominious  rout.  With  considerable  deliber 
ation  he  folded  the  carpet,  placed  it  in  the  box  with  his 
other  treasure,  and  started  at  a  pace  which  may,  per 
haps,  have  quickened  a  little,  yet  was  never  undignified 
— never  more  than  a  moderately  fast  trudge. 

He  wondered  sadly  if  Clytie  would  get  up  to  unlock 
the  door  for  him  so  late  at  night.  As  for  Penny,  things 
could  never  be  the  same  between  them  again. 

He  was  astounded  to  see  lights  burning  and  the 


50  THE  SEEKER 

house  open — how  weird  for  them  to  have  supper  at 
such  an  hour!  He  concealed  his  box  in  the  grape- 
arbour  and  slunk  through  the  kitchen  into  the  dining- 
room.  Probably  they  had  gotten  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  out  of  tardy  alarm  for  him.  It  served  them 
right.  Yet  they  seemed  hardly  to  notice  him  when  he 
slid  awkwardly  into  his  chair.  He  looked  calculatingly 
over  the  table  and  asked,  in  tones  that  somehow  seemed 
to  tell  of  injury,  of  personal  affront: 

"What  you  having  supper  for  at  this  time  of  night  ?" 

His  grandfather  regarded  him  now  not  unkindly, 
while  Clytie  seemed  confused. 

"It's  more'n  long  past  midnight!"  he  insisted. 

"Huh!  it  ain't  only  a  quarter  past  seven/'  put  in  his 
superior  brother.  He  seemed  about  to  say  more,  but 
a  glance  from  the  grandfather  silenced  him. 

So  that  was  as  late  as  he  had  stayed — a  quarter  after 
seven?  He  was  ready  now  to  rage  at  any  taunt,  and 
began  to  eat  in  haughty  silence.  He  was  still  eating 
when  his  grandfather  and  Allan  left  the  table,  and 
then  he  began  to  feel  a  little  grateful  that  they  had  not 
noticed  or  asked  annoying  questions,  or  tried  to  be 
funny  or  anything.  Over  a  final  dish  of  plum  pre 
serves  and  an  imposing  segment  of  marble  cake  he 
relented  so  far  as  to  tell  Clytie  something  of  his  ad 
ventures — especially  since  she  had  said  that  the  big 
hall-clock  was  very  likely  slow — that  it  must  surely  be 
a  lot  later  than  a  quarter  past  seven.  The  circum 
stances  had  combined  to  produce  a  narrative  not 
entirely  perspicuous — the  two  clear  points  being  that 
They  do  everything  in  a  whisper,  and  that  Clytie  ought 
to  get  rid  of  Penny  at  once,  since  he  could  not  be 
depended  upon  at  great  moments. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CRIME  51 

As  to  ever  sleeping  under  a  tree,  Clytie  discouraged 
him.  She  knew  of  some  boys  that  once  sat  under  a 
tree  which  was  struck  by  lightning,  all  being  killed  save 
one,  who  had  the  rare  good  luck  to  be  the  son  of  a 
Presbyterian  clergyman.  The  little  boy  resolved  next 
time  to  go  beyond  the  trees  to  sleep;  perhaps  if  he  went 
far  enough  he  would  come  to  the  other  one  of  the  Feet, 
and  so  have  a  safeguard  against  lightning,  foreign  cows, 
and  Those  that  walk  with  rustlings  and  whisper  in  the 
lonely  places  at  night. 

The  little  boy  fell  asleep,  half-persuaded  again  to 
virtue,  because  of  its  superior  comforts.  The  air  about 
his  head  seemed  full  of  ghostly  "good  business  hands/' 
each  with  its  accusing  forefinger  pointed  at  him  for 
that  he  had  not  learned  to  write  one  as  Ralph  Overton 
did. 

Down  the  hall  in  his  study  the  old  man  was  musing 
backward  to  the  delicate,  quiet  girl  with  the  old- 
fashioned  aureole  of  curls,  who  would  now  and  then 
toss  them  with  a  little  gesture  eloquent  of  possibilities 
for  unrestraint  when  she  felt  the  close-drawn  rein  of 
his  authority.  Again  he  felt  her  rebellious  little  tugs, 
and  the  wrench  of  her  final  defiance  when  she  did  the 
awful  thing.  He  had  been  told  by  a  plain  speaker  that 
her  revolt  was  the  fault  of  his  severity.  And  here  was 
the  flesh  of  her  flesh — was  it  in  the  same  spirit  of  revolt 
against  authority,  a  thousandfold  magnified  ?  Might 
he  not  by  according  the  boy  a  wise  liberty  save  him  in 
after  years  from  some  mad  folly  akin  to  his  mother's  ? 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  GARDEN  OF  TRUTH  AND  THE  PERFECT  FATHER 

IT  was  a  different  summer  from  those  that  had  gone 
before  it. 

A  little  passionate  Protestant  had  sallied  out  to 
make  bed  with  the  gods;  and  the  souls  of  such  the 
just  gods  do  truly  take  into  certain  shining  realms 
whither  poor  involatile  bodies  of  flesh  may  not  follow. 
The  requirement  is  that  one  feel  his  own  potential 
godship  enough  to  rebel.  For,  having  rebelled,  he  will 
assuredly  venture  beyond  mortal  domains  into  that 
garden  where  stands  the  tree  of  Truth — this  garden 
being  that  one  to  the  west  just  beyond  the  second  fence 
(or  whichever  fence);  that  point  where  the  mortal  of 
invertebrate  soul  is  beset  with  the  feeling  that  he  has 
already  dared  too  far — that  he  had  better  make  for 
home  mighty  quick  if  he  doesn't  want  Something  to 
get  him.  The  essence  of  this  decision  is  quite  the  same 
whether  the  mortal  be  eight  years  old  or  eighty.  Now 
the  Tree  of  Truth  stands  just  over  this  line  at  which 
all  but  the  gods'  own  turn  to  scamper  back  before 
supper.  It  is  the  first  tree  to  the  left — an  apple-tree, 
twisted,  blackened,  scathed,  eaten  with  age,  yet  full 
of  blossoms  as  fresh  and  fertile  as  those  first  born  of 
any  young  tree  whatsoever.  Those  able  rightly  to  read 
this  tree  of  Truth  become  at  once  as  the  gods,  keeping 
the  faith  of  children  while  absorbing  the  wisdom  of  the 

52 


THE  GARDEN  OF  TRUTH  53 

ages — lacking  either  of  which,  be  it  known,  one  may 
not  become  an  imperishable  ornament  of  Time. 

But  to  him  who  is  bravely  faithful  to  the  passing  of 
that  last  fence,  who  reclines  under  that  tree  even  for 
so  long  as  one  aspiration,  comes  a  substantial  gain: 
ever  after,  when  he  goes  into  any  solitude,  he  becomes 
more  than  himself.  Then  he  reads  the  first  lesson  of 
the  tree  of  Truth,  which  is  that  the  spirit  of  Life  ages 
yet  is  ageless;  and  suffers  yet  is  joyous.  This  is  no 
inconsiderable  reward  for  passing  that  frontier,  even 
if  one  must  live  longer  to  comprehend  reasons.  It  is 
worth  while  even  if  the  mortal  become  a  mere  dilettante 
in  paradoxes  and  never  learn  even  feebly  to  spell  the 
third  lesson,  which  is  the  ultimate  wisdom  of  the  gods. 

These  matters  being  precisely  so,  the  little  boy  knew 
quite  as  well  as  the  gods  could  know  it,  that  a  credit  had 
been  set  down  to  his  soul  for  what  he  had  ventured — • 
even  though  what  he  had  not  done  was,  so  far,  more 
stupendous  than  what  he  had,  in  the  world  of  things  and 
mere  people.  He  now  became  enamoured  of  life  rather 
than  death;  and  he  studied  the  Shorter  Catechism  with 
such  effect  that  he  could  say  it  clear  over  to  "Every  sin 
deserveth  God's  wrath  and  curse  both  in  this  life  and 
that  which  is  to  come."  Each  night  he  tried  earnestly 
to  learn  two  new  answers;  and  glad  was  he  when  his 
grandfather  would  sit  by  him,  for  the  old  man  had  now 
become  his  image  of  God,  and  it  seemed  fitting  to 
recite  to  him.  Often  as  they  sat  together  the  little 
boy  would  absently  slip  his  hand  into  the  big,  warm, 
bony  hand  of  the  old  man,  turning  and  twisting  it  there 
until  he  felt  an  answering  pressure.  This  embar 
rassed  the  old  man.  Though  he  would  really  have 
liked  to  take  the  little  boy  up  to  his  breast  and  hold  him 


54  THE  SEEKER 

there,  he  knew  not  how;  and  he  would  even  be  careful 
not  to  restrain  the  little  hand  in  his  own — to  hold  it, 
yet  to  leave  it  free  to  withdraw  at  its  first  uneasy 
wriggle. 

Of  this  shackled  spirit  of  kindness,  always  striving 
within  the  old  man,  the  little  boy  had  come  to  be 
entirely  conscious.  So  real  was  it  to  him,  so  dependable, 
that  he  never  suspected  that  a  certain  little  blow  with 
the  open  hand  one  day  was  meant  to  punish  him  for 
conduct  he  had  persisted  in  after  three  emphatic 
admonitions. 

"Oh!  that  hurts!"  he  had  cried,  looking  up  at  the 
confused  old  man  with  unimpaired  faith  in  his  having 
meant  not  more  than  a  piece  of  friendly  roughness. 
This  look  of  flawless  confidence  in  the  uprightness  of 
his  purpose,  the  fine  determination  to  save  him  chagrin 
by  smiling  even  though  the  hurt  place  tingled,  left  in 
the  old  man's  mind  a  biting  conviction  that  he  had  been 
actually  on  the  point  of  behaving  as  one  gentleman 
may  not  behave  to  another.  Quick  was  he  to  make 
the  encounter  accord  with  the  child's  happy  view,  even 
picking  him  up  and  forcing  from  himself  the  gaiety  to 
rally  him  upon  his  babyish  tenderness  to  rough  play. 
Not  less  did  he  hold  it  true  that  "The  rod  and  reproof 
give  wisdom,  but  a  child  left  to  himself  bringeth  his 

mother  to  shame "  and  with  the  older  boy  he  was 

not  unconscientious  in  this  matter.  For  Allan  took 
punishment  as  any  boy  would,  and,  indeed,  was  so 
careful  that  he  seldom  deserved  it.  But  the  old  man 
never  ceased  to  be  grateful  that  the  littler  boy  had 
laughed  under  that  one  blow,  unable  to  suspect  that 
it  could  have  been  meant  in  earnest. 

From  the  first  day  that  the  little  boy  felt  the  tender 


THE  GARDEN  OF  TRUTH  55 

cool  grass  under  his  bare  toes  that  summer,  life  became 
like  perfectly  played  music.  This  was  after  the  long 
vacation  began,  when  there  was  no  longer  any  need  to 
remember  to  let  his  voice  fall  after  a  period,  or  to  dread 
his  lessons  so  that  he  must  learn  them  more  quickly  than 
any  other  pupil  in  school.  There  would  be  no  more 
of  that  wretched  fooling  until  fall,  a  point  of  time 
inconceivably  far  away.  Before  it  arrived  any  one  of 
a  number  of  strange  things  might  happen  to  avert  the 
calamity  of  education.  For  instance,  he  might  be  born 
again,  a  thing  of  which  he  had  lately  heard  talk;  a  con 
tingency  by  no  means  flawless  in  prospect,  since  it  prob 
ably  meant  having  the  mumps  again,  and  things  like  that. 
But  if  it  came  on  the  very  last  day  of  vacation,  or  on  the 
first  morning  of  school,  just  as  he  was  called  on  to 
recite,  snatching  him  from  the  very  jaws  of  the  Moloch, 
and  if  it  fixed  him  so  he  need  not  be  afraid  in  the  night 
of  going  where  Milo  Barrus  was  going,  then  it  might  not 
be  so  bad. 

Nancy,  who  had  now  discarded  the  good  name  of 
Lillian  May  for  simple  Alice,  disapproved  heartily  of 
being  born  again;  unless,  indeed,  one  could  be  born  a 
boy  the  second  time.  She  was  only  too  eager  for  the 
day  when  she  need  not  submit  to  having  her  hair 
brushed  and  combed  so  long  every  morning  of  her  life. 
Not  for  the  world  would  she  go  through  it  again  and 
have  to  begin  French  all  over,  even  at  "J'ai,  tu  as,  il 
a."  Yet,  if  it  were  certain  she  could  be  a  boy — 

He  was  too  considerate  to  tell  her  that  this  was  as 
good  as  impossible — that  she  quite  lacked  the  qualities 
necessary  for  that.  Instead,  he  reassured  her  with  the 
chivalrous  fiction  that  he,  at  least,  would  like  her  as 
well  as  if  she  were  a  boy.  And,  indeed,  as  a  girl,  she 


56  THE  SEEKER 

was  not  wholly  unsatisfactory.  True,  she  played 
"school"  (of  all  things!)  in  preference  to  "wild  animals," 
practised  scales  on  the  piano  an  hour  every  day,  wore 
a  sun-hat  frequently — spite  of  which  she  was  freckled — 
wore  shoes  and  stockings  on  the  hottest  days,  when 
one's  feet  are  so  hungry  for  the  cool,  springy  turf,  and 
performed  other  acts  repugnant  to  a  soul  that  has 
brought  itself  erect.  But  she  was  fresh  and  dainty  to 
look  at,  like  an  opened  morning  glory,  with  pretty 
frocks  that  the  French  lady  whose  name  was  Madmasel 
made  her  wear  every  day,  and  her  eyes  were  much  like 
certain  flowers  in  the  bed  under  the  bay-window,  with 
very  long,  black  lashes  that  got  all  stuck  together  when 
she  cried;  and  she  made  superb  capital  letters,  far  better 
than  the  little  boy's,  though  she  was  a  year  younger. 

Also,  which  was  perhaps  her  chief  charm,  she  could 
be  made  to  believe  that  only  he  could  protect  her  from 
the  Gratcher,  a  monstrous  thing,  half  beast,  half  human, 
'  which  was  often  seen  back  of  the  house;  sometimes 
flitting  through  the  grape-arbour,  sometimes  coming 
out  of  the  dark  cellar,  sometimes  peering  around  corners. 
It  was  a  thing  that  went  on  enormous  crutches,  yet 
could  always  catch  you  if  it  saw  you  by  daylight  out  of 
its  right  eye,  its  left  being  serviceable  only  at  night,  when, 
if  you  were  wise,  you  kept  in  the  house.  Once  the 
Gratcher  saw  you  with  its  right  eye  the  crutches  swung 
toward  you  and  you  were  caught :  it  picked  you  up  and 
began  to  look  you  all  over,  with  the  eyes  in  the  ends  of 
its  fingers.  This  tickled  you  so  that  you  went  crazy  in 
a  minute. 

Nancy  feared  the  Gratcher,  and  she  became  su 
premely  lovely  to  the  little  boy  when  she  permitted  him 
to  guard  her  from  it,  instead  of  running  home  across 


THE  GARDEN  OF  TRUTH  57 

the  lawn  when  it  was  surely  coming; — a  loveliness  he 
felt  more  poignantly  at  certain  reflective  times  when 
he  was  not  also  afraid.  For,  the  Gratcher  being  his  own 
invention,  these  moments  of  superiority  to  its  terrors 
would  inevitably  seize  him. 

Better  than  protecting  Nancy  did  he  love  to  report 
the  Gratcher' s  immediate  presence  to  Allan,  daring  him 
to  stay  on  that  spot  until  it  put  its  dreadful  head  around 
the  corner  and  shook  one  of  its  crutches  at  them.  In 
low  throbbing  tones  he  would  report  its  fearful  ap 
proach,  stride  by  stride,  on  the  crutches.  This  he 
could  do  by  means  of  the  Gratcher-eye,  with  which  he 
claimed  to  be  endowed.  One  having  a  Gratcher-eye 
can  see  around  any  corner  when  a  Gratcher  happens 
to  be  coming — yet  only  then,  not  at  any  other  time,  as 
Allan  had  proved  by  experiment  on  the  first  disclosure 
of  this  phenomenon.  He  of  the  Gratcher-eye  could 
positively  not  see  around  a  corner,  if,  for  example, 
Allan  himself  was  there;  the  Gratcher-eye  could  not 
tell  if  his  hat  was  on  his  head  or  off.  But  this  by  no 
means  proved  that  the  Gratcher-eye  did  not  exercise 
its  magic  function  when  a  Gratcher  actually  approached, 
and  Allan  knew  it.  He  would  stand  staunchly,  with  a 
fine  incredulity,  while  the  little  boy  called  off  the 
strides,  perhaps,  until  he  announced  "Now  he's  just 
passed  the  well-curb — now  he's —  "  but  here,  scoffing 
over  an  anxious  shoulder,  Allan  would  go  in  where 
Clytie  was  baking,  feigning  a  sudden  great  hunger. 

Nancy  would  stay,  because  she  believed  the  little 
boy's  protestations  that  he  could  save  her,  and  the 
little  boy  himself  often  believed  them. 

"I  love  Allan  best,  because  he  is  so  comfortable,  but 
I  think  you  are  the  most  admirable,"  she  would  say  to 


58  THE  SEEKER 

him  at  such  times;  and  he  thought  well  of  her  if  she 
had  seemed  very,  very  frightened. 

So  life  had  become  a  hardy  sport  with  him.  No 
longer  was  he  moved  to  wish  for  early  dissolution  when 
Clytie's  song  floated  to  him : 

"  '  I  should  like  to  die,'  said  Willie, 

If  my  papa  could  die,  too; 
But  he  says  he  isn't  ready, 

'  Cause  he  has  so  much  to  do!" 

This  Willie  had  once  seemed  sweet  and  noble  to  him, 
but  the  words  now  made  him  avid  of  new  life  by  re 
minding  him  that  his  own  dear  father  would  soon  come 
to  be  with  him  one  week,  as  he  had  promised  when  last 
they  parted,  and  as  a  letter  written  with  magnificent 
flourishes  now  announced. 

Late  in  August  this  perfect  father  came  —  a  fine 
laughing,  rollicking,  big  gentleman,  with  a  great,  loud 
voice,  and  beautiful  long  curls  that  touched  his  velvet 
coat-collar.  His  sweeping  golden  moustache,  wide- 
brimmed  white  hat,  the  choice  rings  on  his  fingers,  his 
magnificently  ponderous  gold  watch-chain  and  a  watch 
of  the  finest  silver,  all  proclaimed  him  a  being  of  such 
flawless  elegance  both  in  person  and  attire  that  the 
little  boy  never  grew  tired  of  showing  him  to  the  village 
people  and  to  Clytie.  He  did  not  stay  at  the  big  house, 
for  some  reason,  but  at  the  Eagle  Hotel,  whence  he 
came  to  see  his  boys  each  day,  or  met  them  hurrying  to 
see  him.  And  for  a  further  reason  which  the  little 
boys  did  not  understand,  their  grandfather  continued 
to  be  too  busy  to  see  this  perfect  father  once  during  the 
week  he  stayed  in  the  village. 

Deeming  it  a  pity  that  two  such  choice  spirits  should 


THE  GARDEN  OF  TRUTH  59 

not  be  brought  together,  the  little  boy  urged  his  father 
to  bring  his  fiddle  to  the  big  house  and  play  and  sing 
some  of  his  fine  songs,  so  that  his  grandfather  could 
have  a  chance  to  hear  some  good  music.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  if  the  old  man  once  heard  this  music 
he  would  have  to  give  in  and  enjoy  it,  even  if  he  was  too 
busy  to  come  down.  And  if  only  his  father  would  tune 
up  the  fiddle  and  sing  that  very,  very  good  song  about, 

"  The  more  she  said  '  Whoa! ' 
They  cried,  '  Let  her  go! ' 
And  the  swing  went  a  little  bit  higher," 

if  only  his  grandfather  could  hear  this,  one  of  the 
funniest  and  noisiest  songs  in  the  world,  perhaps  he 
would  come  right  down  stairs.  But  his  father  laughed 
away  the  suggestion,  saying  that  the  old  gentleman  had 
no  ear  for  music;  which,  of  course,  was  a  joke,  for  he 
had  two,  like  any  person. 

Clytemnestra,  too,  was  at  first  strangely  cool  to  the 
incomparable  father,  though  at  last  she  proved  not 
wholly  insensible  to  his  charm,  providing  for  his 
refection  her  very  choicest  cake  and  the  last  tumbler 
of  crab-apple  jelly.  She  began  to  suspect  that  a  man 
of  manners  so  engaging  must  have  good  in  him,  and 
she  gave  him  at  parting  the  tracts  of  "The  Dying 
Drummer  Boy"  and  "Sinner,  what  if  You  Die  To 
day?"  for  which  he  professed  warm  gratitude. 

The  little  boy  afterward  saw  his  perfect  father  hand 
these  very  tracts  to  Milo  Barrus,  when  they  met  him 
on  the  street,  saying,  "Here,  Barrus,  get  your  soul 
saved  while  you  wait!"  Then  they  laughed  together. 

The  little  boy  wondered  if  this  meant  that  Milo 
Barrus  had  come  to  the  Feet,  or  been  born  again,  or 


60  THE  SEEKER 

something.  Or  if  it  meant  that  his  father  also  spelled 
God  with  a  little  g.  He  did  not  think  of  it,  however, 
until  it  was  too  late  to  ask. 

The  flawless  father  went  away  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  "over  the  County  Fair  circuit,  selling  Chief 
White  Cloud's  Great  Indian  Remedy,"  the  little  boy 
heard  him  tell  Clytie.  Also  he  heard  his  grandfather 
say  to  Clytie,  "Thank  God,  not  for  another  year!" 

The  little  boy  liked  Nancy  better  than  ever  after 
that,  because  she  had  liked  his  father  so  much,  saying 
he  was  exactly  like  a  prince,  giving  pennies  and  nickels 
to  everybody  and  being  so  handsome  and  big  and 
grand.  She  wished  her  own  Uncle  Doctor  could  be  as 
beautiful  and  great;  and  the  little  boy  was  generous 
enough  to  wish  that  his  own  plain  grandfather  might 
be  almost  as  fine. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  SUPERLATIVE  COUSIN  BILL  J. 

A  SPLENDID  new  interest  had  now  come  into  the 
household  in  the  person  of  one  whom  Clytemnestra  had 
so  often  named  as  Cousin  Bill  J.  Grandfather  Delcher 
having  been  ordered  south  for  the  winter  by  Dr. 
Crealock,  Cousin  Bill  J.,  upon  Clytie's  recommenda 
tion,  was  imported  from  up  Fredonia  way  to  look  after 
the  cow  and  be  a  man  about  the  place.  Clytie  assured 
Grandfather  Delcher  that  Cousin  Bill  J.  had  "never 
uttered  an  oath,  though  he's  been  around  horses  all 
his  life!"  This  made  him  at  once  an  object  of  interest 
to  the  little  boy,  though  doubtless  he  failed  to  appraise 
the  restraint  at  anything  like  its  true  value.  It  had 
sufficed  Grandfather  Delcher,  however,  and  Cousin 
Bill  J.,  securing  leave  of  absence  from  the  livery-stable 
in  Fredonia,  arrived  the  day  the  old  man  left,  making 
a  double  excitement  for  the  household. 

He  proved  to  be  a  fascinating  person;  handsome, 
affable,  a  ready  talker  upon  all  matters  of  interest — 
though  sarcastic,  withal — and  fond  of  boys.  True,  he 
had  not  long  hair  like  the  little  boy's  father.  Indeed, 
he  had  not  much  hair  at  all,  except  a  sort  of  curtain  of 
black  curls  extending  from  ear  to  ear  at  the  back  of  his 
bare,  pink  head.  But  the  little  boy  had  to  admit  that 
Cousin  Bill  J.'s  moustache  was  even  grander  than  his 
father's.  It  fell  in  two  graceful  festoons  far  below  his 

61 


62  THE  SEEKER 

chin,  with  a  little  eyelet  curled  into  each  tip,  and,  like 
the  ringlets,  it  showed  the  blue-black  lustre  of  the 
crow's  wing.  In  the  full  sunlight,  at  times,  it  became 
almost  a  royal  purple. 

Later  observation  taught  the  little  boy  that  this 
splendid  hue  was  applied  at  intervals  by  Cousin  Bill  J. 
himself.  He  did  it  daintily  with  a  small  brush,  every 
time  the  moustache  began  to  show  a  bit  rusty  at  the 
roots;  Bernal  never  failed  to  be  present  at  this  cere 
mony;  nor  to  resolve  that  his  own  moustache,  when  it 
came,  should  be  as  scrupulously  cared  for — not  left, 
like  Dr.  Crealock's,  for  example,  to  become  speckled 
and  gray. 

Cousin  Bill  J.'s  garments  were  as  splendid  as  his 
character.  He  had  an  overcoat  and  cap  made  from  a 
buffalo  hide;  his  high-heeled  boots  had  maroon  tops 
set  with  purple  crescents;  his  watch-charm  was  a  large 
gold  horse  in  full  gallop;  his  cravat  was  an  extensive 
area  of  scarlet  satin  in  the  midst  of  which  was  caught 
a  precious  stone  as  large  as  a  robin's  egg;  and  in 
smoking,  which  his  physician  had  prescribed,  he  used  a 
superb  meerschaum  cigar-holder,  all  tinted  a  golden 
brown,  upon  which  lightly  perched  a  carven  angel 
dressed  like  those  that  ride  the  big  white  horse  in  the 
circus. 

But  aside  from  these  mere  matters  of  form,  Cousin 
Bill  J.  was  a  man  with  a  history.  Some  years  before  he 
had  sprained  his  back,  since  which  time  he  had  been 
unable  to  perform  hard  labour;  but  prior  to  that  mishap 
he  had  been  a  perfect  specimen  of  physical  manhood — 
one  whose  prowess  had  been  the  marvel  of  an  extensive 
territory.  He  had  split  and  laid  up  his  three  hundred 
and  fifty  rails  many  a  day,  when  strong  men  beside  him 


THE  SUPERLATIVE  COUSIN  BILL  J.     63 

had  blushingly  to  stop  with  three  hundred  or  there 
abouts;  he  had  also  cradled  his  four  acres  of  grain  in  a 
day,  and  he  could  break  the  wildest  horse  ever  known. 
Even  the  great  Budd  Doble,  whom  he  personally  knew, 
had  said  more  than  once,  and  in  the  presence  of  unim 
peachable  witnesses,  that  in  some  ways  he,  Budd  Doble, 
knew  less  about  a  horse  than  Cousin  Bill  J.  did. 
The  little  boy  was  wrought  to  enthusiasm  by  this  trib 
ute,  resolving  always  to  remember  to  say  "hoss"  for 
horse;  and,  though  he  had  not  heard  of  Budd  Doble 
before,  the  name  was  magnetic  for  him.  After  you 
said  it  over  several  times  he  thought  it  made  you 
feel  as  if  you  had  a  cold  in  your  head. 

Still  further,  Cousin  Bill  J.  could  throw  his  thumbs 
out  of  joint,  sing  tenor  in  the  choir,  charm  away  warts, 
recite  "Roger  and  I  "  and  "The  Death  of  Little  Nell," 
and  he  knew  all  the  things  that  would  make  boys  grow 
fast,  like  bringing  in  wood,  splitting  kindling,  putting 
down  hay  for  the  cow,  and  other  out-of-door  exercises 
that  had  made  him  the  demon  of  strength  he  once  was. 
The  little  boy  was  not  only  glad  to  perform  these  acts 
for  his  own  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  lightening  the 
labours  of  his  hero,  who  wrenched  his  back  anew  nearly 
every  time  he  tried  to  do  anything,  and  was  always 
having  to  take  a  medicine  for  it  which  he  called  "  peach- 
and-honey."  The  little  boy  thought  the  name  at 
tractive,  though  his  heart  bled  for  the  sufferer  each  time 
he  was  obliged  to  take  it;  for  after  every  swallow  of  the 
stuff  he  made  a  face  that  told  eloquently  how  nauseous 
it  must  be.  ^ 

As  for  the  satire  and  wit  of  Cousin  Bill  J.,  they  were 
of  the  dry  sort.  He  would  say  to  one  he  met  on  the 
street  when  the  mud  was  deep,  "Fine  weather  over- 


64  THE  SEEKER 

head" — then  adding  dryly,  after  a  significant  pause — 
"but  few  going  that  way!"  Or  he  would  exclaim  with 
feigned  admiration,  when  the  little  boy  shot  at  a  bird 
with  his  bow  and  arrow,  "My!  you  made  the  feathers 
fly  that  time!" — then,  after  his  terrible  pause — "  only, 
the  bird  flew  with  them."  Also  he  could  call  it 
"Fourth  of  Ju-  New- Years"  without  ever  cracking  a 
smile,  though  it  cramped  the  little  boy  in  helpless 
laughter. 

Altogether,  Cousin  Bill  J.  was  a  winning  and  lovely 
character  of  merits  both  spiritual  and  spectacular,  and 
he  brought  to  the  big  house  an  exotic  atmosphere  that 
was  spicy  with  delights.  The  little  boy  prayed  that  this 
hero  might  be  made  again  the  man  he  once  was;  not 
because  of  any  flaw  that  he  could  see  in  him — but  only 
because  the  sufferer  appeared  somewhat  less  than 
perfect  to  himself.  To  Bernal's  mind,  indeed,  nothing 
could  have  been  superior  to  the  noble  melancholy  with 
which  Cousin  Bill  J.  looked  back  upon  his  splendid 
past.  There  was  a  perfect  dignity  in  it.  Surely  no 
mere  electric  belt  could  bring  to  him  an  attraction 
surpassing  this — though  Cousin  Bill  J.  insisted  that  he 
never  expected  any  real  improvement  until  he  could  save 
up  enough  money  to  buy  one.  He  showed  the  little 
boy  a  picture  cut  from  a  newspaper — the  picture  of  a 
strong,  proud-looking  man  with  plenteous  black 
whiskers,  girded  about  with  a  wide  belt  that  was  pro 
jecting  a  great  volume  of  electricity  into  the  air  in 
every  direction.  It  was  interesting  enough,  but  the 
little  boy  thought  this  person  by  no  means  so  beautiful 
as  Cousin  Bill  J.,  and  said  so.  He  believed,  too,  though 
this  he  did  not  say,  from  tactful  motives,  that  it  would 
detract  from  the  dignity  of  Cousin  Bill  J.  to  go  about 


THE  SUPERLATIVE  COUSIN  BILL  J.    65 

clad  only  in  an  electric  belt,  like  the  proud-looking 
gentleman  in  the  picture — even  if  the  belt  did  send  out 
a  lot  of  electric  wiggles  all  the  time.  But,  of  course, 
Cousin  Bill  J.  knew  best.  He  looked  forward  to 
having  his  father  meet  this  new  hero — feeling  that  each 
was  perfect  in  his  own  way. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SEARCHING  THE  SCRIPTURES 

AROUND  the  evening  lamp  that  winter  the  little  boys 
studied  Holy  Writ,  while  Allan  made  summaries  of  it 
for  the  edification  of  the  proud  grandfather  in  far-off 
Florida. 

Tersely  was  the  creation  and  the  fall  of  man  set  forth, 
under  promptings  and  suggestions  from  Clytie  and 
Cousin  Bill  J.,  who  was  no  mean  Bible  authority:  how 
God,  "walking  in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day," 
found  his  first  pair  ashamed  of  their  nakedness,  and 
with  his  own  hands  made  them  coats  of  skins  and 
clothed  them.  "What  a  treasure  those  garments  would 
be  in  this  evil  day,"  said  Clytie — "what  a  silencing 
rebuke  to  all  heretics!"  But  the  Lord  drove  out  the 
wicked  pair,  lest  they  "  take  also  of  the  tree  of  life  and 
live  forever,"  saying,  "Behold,  the  man  is  become  as 
one  of  us!"  This  provoked  a  lengthy  discussion  the 
very  first  evening  as  to  whether  it  meant  that  there  was 
more  than  one  God.  And  Clytie's  view — that  God 
called  himself  "Us"  in  the  same  sense  that  kings  and 
editors  of  newspapers  do — at  length  prevailed  over  the 
polytheistic  hypothesis  of  Cousin  Bill  J. 

On  they  read  to  the  Deluge,  when  man  became  so 
very  bad  indeed  that  God  was  sorry  for  ever  having 
made  him,  and  said:  "  I  will  destroy  man  whom  I  have 
created  from  the  face  of  the  earth;  both  man  and  the 

66 


SEARCHING  THE  SCRIPTURES          67 

beast  and  the  creeping  thing,  and  the  fowls  of  the  air, 
for  it  repenteth  me  that  I  have  made  them." 

Hereupon  Bernal  suggested  that  all  the  white 
rabbits  at  least  should  have  been  saved — thinking  of 
his  own  two  in  the  warm  nest  in  the  barn.  He  was 
unable  to  see  how  white  rabbits  with  twitching  pink 
noses  and  pink  rims  around  their  eyes  could  be  an 
offense,  or,  indeed,  other  than  a  pure  joy  even  to  one 
so  good  as  God.  But  he  gave  in,  with  new  admiration 
for  the  ready  mind  of  Cousin  Bill  J.,  who  pointed  out 
that  white  rabbits  could  not  have  been  saved  because 
they  were  not  fish.  He  even  relished  the  dry  quip  that 
maybe  he,  the  little  boy,  thought  white  rabbits  were  fish ; 
but  Cousin  Bill  J.  didn't,  for  his  part. 

Past  the  Tower  of  Babel  they  went,  when  the  Lord 
"came  down  to  see  the  city  and  the  tower,"  and  made 
them  suddenly  talk  strange  tongues  to  one  another  so 
they  could  not  build  their  tower  actually  into  Heaven. 

The  little  boy  thought  this  a  fine  joke  to  play  on 
them,  to  set  them  all  "  jabbering"  so. 

After  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  fighting,  and,  in 
the  language  of  Allan's  summary,  "God  loved  all  the 
good  people  so  he  gave  them  lots  of  wives  and  cattle 
and  sheep  and  he  let  them  go  out  and  kill  all  the  other 
people  they  wanted  to  which  was  their  enemies."  But 
the  little  boy  found  the  butcheries  rather  monotonous. 

Occasionally  there  was  something  graphic  enough  to 
excite,  as  where  the  heads  of  Ahab's  seventy  children 
were  put  into  a  basket  and  exposed  in  two  heaps  at  the 
city's  gate;  but  for  the  most  part  it  made  him  sleepy. 

True,  when  it  came  to  getting  the  Children  of  Israel 
out  of  Egypt,  as  Cousin  Bill  J.  observed,  "Things 
brisked  up  considerable." 


68  THE  SEEKER 

The  plan  of  first  hardening  Pharaoh's  heart,  then 
scaring  him  by  a  pestilence,  then  again  hardening  his 
heart  for  another  calamity,  quite  won  the  little  boy's 
admiration  for  its  ingenuity,  and  even  Cousin  Bill  J. 
would  at  times  betray  that  he  was  impressed.  Fever 
ishly  they  followed  the  miracles  done  to  Egypt;  the 
plague  of  frogs,  of  lice,  of  flies,  of  boils  and  blains  on 
man  and  beast;  the  plague  of  hail  and  lightning,  of 
locusts,  and  the  three  days  of  darkness.  Then  came 
the  Lord's  final  triumph,  which  was  to  kill  all  the  first 
born  in  the  land  of  Egypt,  "from  the  first-born  of 
Pharaoh,  that  sitteth  upon  the  throne,  even  unto  the 
first-born  of  the  maid-servant  that  is  behind  the  mill; 
and  all  the  first-born  of  beasts."  Again  the  little  boy's 
heart  ached  as  he  thought  pityingly  of  the  first-born  of 
all  white  rabbits,  but  there  was  too  much  of  excitement 
to  dwell  long  upon  that  humble  tragedy.  There  was 
the  manner  in  which  the  Israelites  identified  themselves, 
by  marking  their  doors  with  a  sprig  of  hyssop  dipped  in 
the  blood  of  a  male  lamb  without  blemish.  Vividly  did 
he  see  the  good  God  gliding  cautiously  from  door  to 
door,  looking  for  the  mark  of  blood,  and  passing  the 
lucky  doors  where  it  was  seen  to  be  truly  of  a  male  lamb 
without  blemish.  He  thought  it  must  have  taken  a  lot 
of  lambs  to  mark  up  all  the  doors ! 

Then  came  that  master-stroke  of  enterprise,  when 
God  directed  Moses  to  "speak  now  in  the  ears  of  the 
people  and  let  every  man  borrow  of  his  neighbour,  and 
every  woman  of  her  neighbour,  jewels  of  silver  and 
jewels  of  gold,"  so  that  they  might  "spoil"  the  Egyp 
tians.  Cousin  Bill  J.  chuckled  when  he  read  this, 
declaring  it  to  be  "a  regular  Jew  trick";  but  Clytie 


SEARCHING  THE  SCRIPTURES          69 

rebuked  him  quickly,  reminding  him  that  they  were 
God's  own  words,  spoken  in  His  own  holy  voice. 

"Well,  it  was  mighty  thoughtful  in  God,"  insisted 
Cousin  Bill  J.,  but  Clytie  said,  however  that  was,  it 
served  Pharaoh  right  for  getting  his  heart  hardened  so 
often. 

The  little  boy,  not  perceiving  the  exact  significance 
of  "spoil"  in  this  connection,  wondered  if  Cousin  Bill  J. 
would  spoil  if  some  one  borrowed  his  gold  horse  and 
ran  off  with  it. 

Then  came  that  exciting  day  when  the  Lord  said,  "I 
will  get  me  honour  upon  Pharaoh  and  all  his  host," 
which  He  did  by  drowning  them  thoroughly  in  the  Red 
Sea.  The  little  boy  thought  he  would  have  liked  to 
be  there  in  a  boat — a  good  safe  boat  that  would  not  tip 
over;  also  that  he  would  much  like  to  have  a  rod  such 
as  Aaron  had,  that  would  turn  into  a  serpent.  It 
would  be  a  fine  thing  to  take  to  school  some  morning. 
But  Cousin  Bill  J.  thought  it  doubtful  if  one  could  be 
procured;  though  he  had  seen  Heller  pour  five  colours 
of  wine  out  of  a  bottle  which,  when  broken,  proved  to 
have  a  live  guinea-pig  in  it.  This  seemed  to  the  little 
boy  more  wonderful  than  Aaron's  rod,  though  he  felt 
it  would  not  reflect  honour  upon  God  to  say  so. 

Another  evening  they  spent  before  Sinai,  Cousin 
Bill  J.  reading  the  verses  in  a  severe  and  loud  tone  when 
the  voice  of  the  Lord  was  sounding.  Duly  impressed 
was  the  little  boy  with  the  terrors  of  the  divine  presence, 
a  thing  so  awful  that  the  people  must  not  go  up  into 
the  mount  nor  even  touch  its  border — lest  "the  Lord 
break  forth  upon  them :  There  shall  not  a  hand  touch 
it  but  he  shall  surely  be  stoned  or  shot  through ;  whether 
it  be  beast  or  man  it  shall  not  live."  Clytie  said  the 


70  THE  SEEKER 

goodness  of  God  was  shown  herein.  An  evil  God 
would  not  have  warned  them,  and  many  worthy  but 
ignorant  people  would  have  been  blasted. 

Then  He  came  down  in  thunder  and  smoke  and 
lightning  and  earthquakes — which  Cousin  Bill  J.  read 
in  tones  that  enabled  Bernal  to  feel  every  possible  joy 
of  terror;  came  to  tell  them  that  He  was  a  very  jealous 
God  and  that  they  must  not  worship  any  of  the  other 
gods.  He  commanded  that  "thou  shalt  not  revile  the 
Gods,"  also  that  they  should  "make  no  mention  of  the 
names  of  other  Gods,"  which  Cousin  Bill  J.  said  was 
as  fair  as  you  could  ask. 

When  they  reached  the  directions  for  sacrificing,  the 
little  boy  was  doubly  alert — in  the  event  that  he  should 
ever  determine  to  be  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  lamb 
and  have  to  do  his  own  killing. 

"Then,"  read  Cousin  Bill  J.,  in  a  voice  meant  to 
convey  the  augustness  of  Deity,  "thou  shalt  kill  the 
ram  and  take  of  his  blood  and  put  it  upon  the  tip  of  the 
right  ear  of  Aaron  and  upon  the  tip  of  the  right  ear  of 
his  sons,  and  upon  the  thumb  of  their  right  hand,  and 
upon  the  great  toe  of  their  right  foot."  So  you  didn't 
have  to  wash  all  over  in  the  blood.  He  agreed  with 
Clytie,  who  remarked  that  no  one  could  ever  have 
found  out  how  to  do  it  right  unless  God  had  told.  The 
God-given  directions  that  ensued  for  making  the  water 
of  separation  from  "the  ashes  of  a  red  heifer"  he  did  not 
find  edifying;  but  some  verses  after  that  seemed  more 
practicable.  "And  thou  shalt  take  of  the  ram,"  con 
tinued  the  reader  in  majestic  cadence,  "the  fat  and  the 
rump  and  the  fat  that  covereth  the  inwards,  and  the 
caul  above  the  liver,  and  the  two  kidneys  and  the  fat 
that  is  upon  them " 


SEARCHING  THE  SCRIPTURES          71 

Here  was  detail  with  a  satisfying  minuteness;  and 
all  this  was  for  "a  wave-offering"  to  be  waved  before 
the  Lord — which  was  indeed  an  interesting  thought. 

"If  God  was  so  careful  of  His  children  in  these  small 
matters,"  said  Clytie;  "no  wonder  they  believed  He 
would  care  for  them  in  graver  matters,  and  no  wonder 
they  looked  forward  so  eagerly  to  the  coming  of  His  Son, 
whom  He  promised  should  be  sent  to  save  them  from 
His  wrath." 

Through  God's  succeeding  minute  directions  for  the 
building  and  upholstery  of  His  tabernacle,  "with  ten 
curtains  of  fine  twined  linen  and  blue  and  purple  and 
scarlet,  with  cherubims  of  cunning  work  shalt  thou 
make  them,"  the  interest  of  the  little  boys  rather 
languished ;  likewise  through  His  regulations  about  such 
dry  matters  as  slavery,  divorce,  and  polygamy.  His 
directions  for  killing  witches  and  for  stoning  the  ox  that 
gores  a  man  or  woman  had  more  of  colour  in  them. 
But  there  was  no  real  interest  until  the  good  God 
promised  His  children  to  bring  them  in  unto  the 
Amorites  and  the  Hittites  and  the  Perizzites  and  the 
Canaanites,  the  Hivites  and  the  Jebusites,  to  "cut  them 
off."  It  was  not  uninteresting  to  know  that  God  put 
Moses  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock  and  covered  it  with  His 
hand  when  He  passed  by,  thus  permitting  Moses  a 
partial  view  of  the  divine  person.  But  the  actual  fighting 
of  battles  was  thereafter  the  chief  source  of  interest. 
For  God  was  a  mighty  God  of  battles,  never  weary  of 
the  glories  of  slaughter.  When  it  was  plain  that  He 
could  make  a  handful  of  two  thousand  Israelites  slay 
two  hundred  thousand  Midianites,  in  a  moment,  as  one 
might  say,  the  wisdom  of  coming  to  the  Feet,  being 
born  again,  and  washing  in  the  blood  ceased  to  be 


72  THE  SEEKER 

debatable.  It  would  seem  very  silly,  indeed,  to 
neglect  any  precaution  that  would  insure  the  favour  of 
this  God,  who  slew  cities  full  of  men  and  women  and 
little  children  off-hand.  The  little  boy  thought  Milo 
Barrus  would  begin  to  spell  a  certain  word  with  the 
very  biggest  "  G  "  he  could  make,  if  any  one  were  to 
bring  these  matters  to  his  notice. 

As  to  Allan,  who  made  abstracts  of  the  winter's 
study,  Clytemnestra  and  her  transcendent  relative 
agreed  that  he  would  one  day  be  a  power  in  the  land. 
Off  to  Florida  each  week  they  sent  his  writing  to 
Grandfather  Delcher,  who  was  proud  of  it,  in  spite  of 
his  heart  going  out  chiefly  to  the  littler  boy. 

"So  this  is  all  I  know  now  about  God,"  ran  the  con 
clusion,  "except  that  He  loved  us  so  that  He  gave  His 
only  Son  to  be  crucified  so  that  He  could  forgive  our 
sins  as  soon  as  He  saw  His  Son  nailed  up  on  the  cross, 
and  those  that  believed  it  could  be  with  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  and  those  that  didn't  believe  it, 
like  the  Jews  and  heathens,  would  have  to  be  in  hell 
for  ever  and  ever  Amen.  This  proves  His  great  love 
for  us  and  that  He  is  the  true  God.  So  this  is 
all  I  have  learned  this  winter  about  God,  who  is 
a  spirit  infinite  eternal  and  unchangeable  in  his  being, 
wisdom  and  power  holiness  justice  goodness  and  truth, 
and  the  word  of  God  is  contained  in  the  scriptures  of 
the  old  and  new  testament  which  is  the  only  rule  to 
direct  us  how  we  may  glorify  and  enjoy  him.  In  my 
next  I  will  take  up  the  meek  and  lowly  Jesus  and  show 
you  how  much  I  have  learned  about  him." 

They  had  been  unable  to  persuade  the  littler  boy 
into  this  species  of  composition,  his  mind  dwelling  too 
much  on  the  first-born  of  white  rabbits  and  such,  but 


SEARCHING  THE  SCRIPTURES          73 

to  show  that  his  winter  was  not  wholly  lost,  he  sub 
mitted  a  secular  composition,  which  ran: 

"BIRDS 

"The  Auiml  kindorn  is  devided  into  birds  and 
reguler  animls.  Our  teecher  says  we  had  ougt  to 
obsurv  so  I  obsurv  there  is  three  kinds  of  birds  Jingle 
birds  Squeek  birds  and  Clatter  birds.  Jingle  birds  has 
fat  rusty  stumacks.  I  have  not  the  trouble  to  obsurv 
any  more  kinds." 


CHAPTER  IX 
ON  SURVIVING  THE  IDOLS  WE  BUILD 

IT  is  the  way  of  life  to  be  forever  building  new  idols 
in  place  of  the  old.  Into  the  fabric  of  these  the  most 
of  us  put  so  much  of  ourselves  that  a  little  of  us  dies 
each  time  a  cherished  image  crumbles  from  age  or  is 
shattered  by  some  lightning-stroke  of  truth  from  a  cloud 
electric  with  doubt.  This  is  why  we  fade  and  wither 
as  the  leaf.  Could  we  but  sweep  aside  the  wreck  without 
dismay  and  raise  a  new  idol  from  the  overflowing 
certainty  of  youth,  then  indeed  should  we  have  eaten 
from  that  other  tree  in  Eden,  for  the  defence  of  which  is 
set  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword.  But  this  may 
not  be.  Fatuously  we  stake  our  souls  on  each  new 
creation — deeming  that  here,  in  sooth,  is  one  that  shall 
endure  beyond  the  end  of  time.  To  the  last  we  are 
dull  to  the  truth  that  our  idols  are  meant  to  be  broken, 
to  give  way  to  other  idols  still  to  be  broken. 

And  so  we  lose  a  little  of  ourselves  each  time  an 
idol  falls;  and,  learning  thus  to  doubt,  wistfully, 
stoically  we  learn  to  die,  leaving  some  last  idol  tri 
umphantly  surviving  us.  For — and  this  is  the  third 
lesson  from  that  tree  of  Truth — we  learn  to  doubt,  not 
the  perfection  of  our  idols,  but  the  divinity  of  their 
creator.  And  it  would  seem  that  this  is  quite  as  it 
should  be.  So  long  as  the  idol-maker  will  be  a  slave  to 
his  creatures,  so  long  should  the  idol  survive  and  the 

74 


ON  SURVIVING  THE  IDOLS  WE  BUILD     75 


maker  go  back  to  useful  dust.  Whereas,  did  he  doubt 
his  idols  and  never  himself — but  this  is  mostly  a  secret, 
for  not  many  common  idolmongers  will  cross  that  last 
fence  to  the  west,  beyond  the  second  field,  where  the 
cattle  are  strange  and  the  hour  so  late  that  one  must 
turn  back  for  bed  and  supper. 

To  one  who  accepts  the  simple  truth  thus  put  down 
precisely,  it  will  be  apparent  that  the  little  boy  was 
destined. to  see  more  than  one  idol  blasted  before  his 
eyes;  yet,  also,  that  he  was  not  come  to  the  foolish 
caution  of  the  wise,  whom  failure  leads  to  doubt  their 
own  powers — as  if  we  were  not  meant  to  fail  in  our 
idols  forever!  Being,  then,  not  come  to  this  spiritual 
decrepitude,  fitted  still  to  exercise  a  blessed  contempt  for 
the  Wisdom  of  the  Ages,  it  is  plain  that  he  could  as  yet 
see  an  idol  go  to  bits  without  dismay,  conscious  only 
of  the  need  for  a  new  and  a  better  one. 

Not  all  one's  idols  are  shattered  in  a  day.  This 
were  a  catastrophe  that  might  wrench  even  youth's  divine 
credulity. 

Not  until  another  year  had  gone,  with  its  heavy- 
gaited  school-months  and  its  galloping  vacation-days, 
did  the  little  boy  come  to  understand  that  Santa  Glaus 
was  not  a  real  presence.  And  instead  of  wailing  over 
the  ruins  of  this  idol,  he  brought  a  sturdy  faith  to 
bear,  building  in  its  place  something  unseen  and  un 
heard  of  any  save  himself — an  idol  discernible  only 
by  him,  but  none  the  less  real  for  that. 

The  Imp  with  the  hammer  being  no  respecter  of 
dignities,  the  idol  of  the  Front  Room  fell  next,  increasing 
the  heap  of  ruins  that  was  gathering  about  his  feet. 
Tragically  came  a  day  one  spring,  a  cold,  cloudy, 
rational  day,  it  seemed,  when  the  Front  Room  went 


76  THE  SEEKER 

down;  for  the  little  boy  saw  all  its  sanctities  violated, 
its  mysteries  laid  bare.  And  the  Front  Room  became 
a  mere  front  room.  Its  shutters  were  opened  and  its 
windows  raised  to  let  in  light  and  common  fresh  air; 
its  carpet  was  on  the  line  outside  to  be  scourged  of  dust ; 
the  black,  formidable  furniture  was  out  on  the  wide 
porch  to  be  re-varnished,  like  any  common  furniture, 
plainly  needing  it;  the  vases  of  dyed  grass  might  be 
handled  without  risk;  and  the  dark  spirit  that  had 
seemed  to  be  in  and  over  all  was  vanished.  Even  the 
majestic  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  which  the  sinful  Uzza 
once  died  for  so  much  as  touching  reverently,  was  now 
seen  to  be  an  ordinary  stove  for  the  burning  of  anthracite 
coal,  to  be  rattled  profanely  and  polished  for  an  extra 
quarter  by  Sherman  Tranquillity  Tyler  after  he  had 
finished  whitewashing  the  cellar.  Fearlessly  the  little 
boy,  grown  somewhat  bigger  now,  walked  among  the 
debris  of  this  idol,  stamping  the  floor,  sounding  the 
walls,  detecting  cracks  in  the  ceiling,  spots  on  the  wall 
paper  and  cobwebs  in  the  corners.  Yet  serene  amid 
the  ruins  towered  his  valiant  spirit,  conscious  under 
the  catastrophe  of  its  power  to  build  other  and  yet 
stauncher  idols. 

Thus  was  it  one  day  to  stretch  itself  with  new  power 
amid  the  base  ruins  of  Cousin  Bill  J.,  though  the  time 
was  mercifully  deferred — that  his  soul  might  gain 
strength  in  worship  to  put  away  even  that  which  it 
worshipped  when  the  day  of  new  truth  dawned. 

When  Cousin  Bill  J.,  in  the  waning  of  that  first 
winter,  began  actually  to  refine  his  own  superlative 
elegance  by  spraying  his  superior  garments  with  per 
fume,  by  munching  tiny  confections  reputed  to  scent 
the  breath  desirably,  by  a  more  diligent  grooming  of 


ON  SURVIVING  THE  IDOLS  WE  BUILD     77 

the  always  superb  moustache,  the  little  boy  suspected 
no  motive.  He  saw  these  works  only  as  the  outward 
signs  of  an  inward  grace  that  must  be  ever  increasing. 
So  it  came  that  his  amazement  was  above  that  of  all 
other  persons  when,  at  Spring's  first  breath  of  honeyed 
fragrance,  Cousin  Bill  J.  went  to  be  the  husband  of 
Miss  Alvira  Abney.  He  had  not  failed  to  observe  that 
Miss  Alvira  sang  alto,  in  the  choir,  out  of  the  same 
book  from  which  Cousin  Bill  J.  produced  his  exquisite 
tenor.  But  he  had  reasoned  nothing  from  this,  beyond, 
perhaps,  the  thought  that  Miss  Alvira  made  a  poor 
figure  beside  her  magnificent  companion,  even  if  her 
bonnet  was  always  the  gayest  bonnet  in  church,  trem 
bling  through  every  season  with  the  blossoms  of  some 
ageless  springtime.  For  the  rest,  Miss  Alvira's  face 
and  hair  and  eyes  seemed  to  be  all  one  colour,  very  pale, 
and  her  hands  were  long  and  thin,  with  far  too  many 
bones  in  them  for  human  hands,  the  little  boy  thought. 

Yet  when  he  learned  that  the  woman  was  not  without 
merit  in  the  sight  of  his  clear-eyed  hero,  he,  too,  gave 
her  his  favour.  At  the  marriage  he  felt  in  his  heart  a 
certain  high,  pure  joy  that  must  have  been  akin  to  that 
in  the  bride's  own  heart,  for  their  faces  seemed  to 
speak  much  alike. 

Tensely  the  little  boy  listened  to  the  words  that 
united  these  two,  understanding  perfectly  from  ques 
tions  that  his  hero  endowed  the  woman  at  his  side  with 
all  his  wrorldly  goods.  Even  a  less  practicable  person 
than  Miss  Alvira  would  have  acquired  distinction  in 
this  light — being  endowed  with  the  gold  horse,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  carven  cigar-holder  or  the  precious 
jewel  in  the  scarlet  cravat.  Probably  now  she  would 
be  able  to  throw  her  thumbs  out  of  joint,  too! 


78  THE  SEEKER 

But  to  the  little  boy  chiefly  the  thing  meant  that 
Cousin  Bill  J.  would  stay  close  at  hand,  to  be  a  joy 
forever  in  his  sight  and  lend  importance  to  the  town  of 
Edom.  For  his  hero  was  to  go  and  live  in  the  neat 
rooms  of  Miss  Alvira  over  her  millinery  and  dress 
making  shop,  and  never  return  to  the  scenes  of  his 
early  prowess. 

After  the  wedding  the  little  boy,  on  his  way  to  school 
of  a  morning,  would  watch  for  Cousin  Bill  J.  to  wheel 
out  on  the  sidewalk  the  high  glass  case  in  which  Miss 
Alvira  had  arranged  her  pretty  display  of  flowered 
bonnets.  And  slowly  it  came  to  life  in  his  under 
standing  that  between  the  not  irksome  task  of  wheeling 
out  this  case  in  the  morning  and  wheeling  it  back  at 
night,  Cousin  Bill  J.  now  enjoyed  the  liberty  that  a  man 
of  his  parts  deserved.  He  was  free  at  last  to  sit  about 
in  the  stores  of  the  village,  or  to  enthrone  himself 
publicly  before  them  in  clement  weather,  at  which 
time  his  opinion  upon  a  horse,  or  any  other  matter 
whatsoever,  could  be  had  for  the  asking.  Nor  would 
he  be  invincibly  reticent  upon  the  subject  of  those  early 
exploits  which  had  once  set  all  of  Chautauqua  County 
marvelling  at  his  strength. 

At  first  the  little  boy  was  stung  with  jealousy  at  this. 
Later  he  came  to  rejoice  in  the  very  circumstance  that 
had  brought  him  pain.  If  his  hero  could  not  be  all  his, 
at  least  the  world  would  have  to  blink  even  as  he  had 
blinked,  in  the  dazzling  light  of  his  excellences — yes, 
and  smart  under  the  lash  of  his  unequalled  sarcasm. 

It  should,  perhaps,  be  said  that  dissolution  by  slow 
poison  is  not  infrequently  the  fate  of  an  idol. 

Doubtless  there  was  never  a  certain  day  of  which  the 
little  boy  could  have  said  "that  was  the  first  time 


ON  SURVIVING  THE  IDOLS 'WE  BUILD     79 

Cousin  Bill  J.  began  to  seem  different."  Yet  there 
came  a  moment  when  all  was  changed — a  time  of 
question,  doubt,  conviction;  a  terrible  hour,  in  short, 
when,  face  to  face  with  his  hero,  he  suffered  the  deep 
hurt  of  knowing  that  mentally,  morally,  and  even 
esthetically,  he  himself  was  the  superior  of  Cousin 
Bill  J. 

He  could  remember  that  first  he  had  heard  a  caller 
say  to  Clytie  of  Miss  Alvira,  "Why,  they  do  say  the  poor 
thing  has  to  go  down  those  back  stairs  and  actually 
split  her  own  kindlings — with  that  healthy  loafer  setting 
around  in  the  good  clothes  she  buys  him,  in  the  back 
room  of  that  drug-store  from  morning  till  night.  And 
what's  worse,  he's  been  seen  with  that  eldest " 

Here  the  caller's  eyes  had  briefly  shifted  side  wise  at 
the  small  listener,  whereupon  Clytie  had  urged  him  to 
run  along  and  play  like  a  good  boy.  He  pondered  at 
length  that  which  he  had  overheard  and  then  he  went  to 
Miss  Alvira's  wood-pile  at  the  foot  of  her  back  stairs, 
reached  by  turning  up  the  alley  from  Main  Street.  He 
split  a  large  pile  of  kindling  for  her.  He  would  have 
been  glad  to  do  this  each  day,  had  not  Miss  Alvira 
proved  to  be  lacking  in  delicacy.  Instead  of  ignoring 
him,  when  she  saw  him  from  her  back  window,  where 
she  was  second-fitting  Samantha  Rexford's  pink  waist, 
she  came  out  with  her  mouth  full  of  pins  and  gave  him 
five  cents  and  tried  to  kiss  him.  Of  course,  he  never 
went  back  again.  If  that  was  the  kind  she  was  she 
could  go  on  doing  the  work  herself.  He  was  no  Ralph 
Overton  or  Ben  Holt,  to  be  shamed  that  way  and  made 
to  feel  that  he  had  been  Doing  Good,  and  be  spoken  of 
all  the  time  as  "our  Hero." 

As  for  Cousin  Bill  J.,  of  course  he  was  a  loafer! 


80  THE  SEEKER 

Who  wouldn't  be  if  he  had  the  chance?  But  it  was 
false  and  cruel  to  say  that  he  was  a  healthy  loafer. 
When  Cousin  Bill  J.  was  healthy  he  had  been  able  to 
fell  an  ox  with  one  blow  of  his  fist. 

Nor  was  he  disturbed  seriously  by  rumours  that  his 
hero  was  a  "come-outer";  that  instead  of  attending 
church  with  Miss  Alvira  he  could  be  heard  at  the  barber 
shop  of  a  Sabbath  morning,  agreeing  with  Milo  Barrus 
that  God  might  have  made  the  world  in  six  days  and 
rested  on  the  seventh;  but  he  couldn't  have  made  the 
whale  swallow  Jonah,  because  it  was  against  reason 
and  nature;  and,  if  you  found  one  part  of  the  Bible 
wasn't  so,  how  could  you  tell  the  rest  of  it  wasn't  a  lot 
of  grandmother's  tales? 

Nor  did  he  feel  anything  but  sympathy  for  a  helpless 
man  imposed  upon  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Squire  Cump- 
ston  say  to  Clytie,  "Do  you  know  that  lazy  brute  has 
her  worked  to  a  mere  shadow;  she  just  sits  in  that  shop 
all  day  long  and  lets  tears  fall  every  minute  or  so  on  her 
work.  She  spoiled  five-eighths  of  a  yard  of  three-inch 
lavender  satin  ribbon  that  way,  that  was  going  on  to 
Mrs.  Beasley's  second-mourning  bonnet.  And  she's 
had  to  cut  him  down  to  twenty-five  cents  a  day  for 
spending-money,  and  order  the  stores  not  to  trust  him 
one  cent  on  her  account." 

He  was  sorry  to  have  Miss  Alvira  crying  so  much. 
It  must  be  a  sloppy  business,  making  her  hats  and 
things.  But  what  did  the  woman  expect  of  a  man  like 
Cousin  Bill  J.,  anyway? 

Yet  somehow  it  came  after  a  few  years — the  new 
light  upon  his  old  idol.  One  day  he  found  that  he 
neither  resented  nor  questioned  a  thing  he  heard 
Clytie  herself  say  about  Cousin  Bill  J. :  "Why,  he  don't 


ON  SURVIVING  THE  IDOLS  WE  BUILD    81 

know  as  much  as  a  goat."  Here  she  reconsidered, 
with  an  air  of  wanting  to  be  entirely  fair: — "Well,  not 
as  much  as  a  goat  really  ought  to  know!"  And  when 
he  overheard  old  Squire  Cumpston  saying  on  the 
street,  a  few  days  later,  "Of  all  God's  mean  creatures, 
the  meanest  is  a  male  human  that  can  keep  his  health 
on  the  money  a  woman  earns!"  it  was  no  shock, 
though  he  knew  that  Cousin  Bill  J.  was  meant. 

Departed  then  was  the  glory  of  his  hero,  his  splendid 
dimensions  shrunk,  his  effective  lustre  dulled,  his 
perfect  moustache  rusted  and  scraggly,  his  chin 
weakened,  his  pale  blue  eyes  seen  to  be  in  force  like 
those  of  a  china  doll. 

He  heard  with  interest  that  Squire  Cumpston  had 
urged  Miss  Alvira  to  divorce  her  husband,  that  she 
had  refused,  declaring  God  had  joined  her  to  Cousin 
Bill  J.  and  that  no  man  might  put  them  asunder;  that 
marriage  had  been  raised  by  Christ  to  the  dignity  of  a 
sacrament  and  was  now  indissoluble — an  emblem, 
indeed,  of  Christ's  union  with  His  Church;  and  that, 
as  she  had  made  her  bed,  so  would  she  lie  upon  it. 

Nor  was  the  boy  alone  in  regarding  as  a  direct 
manifestation  of  Providence  the  sudden  removal  of 
Cousin  Bill  J.  from  this  life  by  means  of  pneumonia. 
For  Miss  Alvira  had  ever  been  esteemed  and  respected 
even  by  those  who  considered  that  she  sang  alto  half  a 
note  off,  while  her  husband  had  gradually  acquired  the 
disesteem  of  almost  the  entire  village  of  Edom.  Many, 
indeed,  went  so  far  as  to  consider  him  a  reproach  to  his 
sex. 

Yet  there  were  a  few  who  said  that  even  a  pretended 
observance  of  the  decencies  would  have  been  better. 
Miss  Alvira  disagreed  with  them,  however,  and  after 


82  THE  SEEKER 

all,  as  the  village  wag,  Elias  Cuthbert,  said  in  the  post- 
office  next  day,  "It  was  her  funeral."  For  Miss 
Alvira  had  made  no  pretense  to  God;  and,  what  is 
infinitely  harder,  she  would  make  none  to  the  world. 
She  rode  to  the  last  resting-place  of  her  husband — 
Elias  also  made  a  funny  joke  about  his  having  merely 
changed  resting-places — decked  in  a  bonnet  on  which 
were  many  blossoms.  She  had  worn  it  through  years 
when  her  heart  mourned  and  life  was  bitter,  when  it 
seemed  that  God  from  His  infinity  had  chosen  her  to 
suffer  the  cruellest  hurts  a  woman  may  know — and 
now  that  He  had  set  her  free  she  was  not  the  one  to 
pretend  grief  with  some  lying  pall  of  crepe.  And  on 
the  new  bonnet  she  wore  to  church,  the  first  Sabbath 
after,  there  still  flowered  above  her  somewhat  drawn 
face  the  blossoms  of  an  endless  girlhood,  as  if  they  were 
rooted  in  her  very  heart.  Beneath  these  blossoms  she 
sang  her  alto — such  as  it  was — with  just  a  hint  of 
tossing  defiance.  Yet  there  was  no  need  for  that. 
Edom  thought  well  of  her. 

No  one  was  known  to  have  mourned  the  departed 
save  an  inferior  glog  he  had  made  his  own  and  been  kind 
to;  but  this  creature  had  little  sympathy  or  notice, 
though  he  was  said  to  have  waited  three  days  and  three 
nights  on  the  new  earth  that  topped  the  grave  of  Cousin 
Bill  J.  For,  quite  aside  from  his  unfortunate  connec 
tion,  he  had  not  been  thought  well  of  as  a  dog. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  PASSING  OF  THE  GRATCHER;  AND  ANOTHER 

FROM  year  to  year  the  perfect  father  came  to  Edom 
to  be  a  week  with  his  children.  And  though  from 
visit  to  visit  there  were  external  variations  in  him, 
his  genial  and  refreshing  spirit  was  changeless. 
When  his  garments  were  appreciably  less  regal,  even 
to  the  kind  eye  of  his  younger  son;  when  his  hat  was  not 
all  one  might  wish;  the  boots  less  than  excellent;  the 
priceless  watch-chain  absent,  or  moored  to  a  mere 
bunch  of  aimless  keys,  though  the  bounty  from  his 
pockets  was  an  irregular  and  minute  trickle  of  copper 
exclusively,  the  little  boy  strutted  as  proudly  by  his 
side,  worshipping  him  as  loyally,  as  when  these  outer 
affairs  were  quite  the  reverse.  Yet  he  could  not  avoid 
being  sensible  of  the  fluctuations. 

One  year  the  parent  would  come  with  the  long  hair 
of  one  who,  having  been  brother  to  the  red  Indian 
for  years,  has  wormed  from  his  medicine  man  the 
choicest  secret  of  his  mysterious  pharmacopseia,  and 
who  would  out  of  love  for  suffering  humanity  place  this 
within  the  reach  of  all  for  a  nominal  consideration. 

Another  year  he  would  be  shorn  of  the  sweeping 
moustache  and  much  of  the  tawny  hair,  and  the  little 
boy  would  understand  that  he  had  travelled  extensively 
with  a  Mr.  Haverly,  singing  his  songs  each  evening  in 
large  cities,  and  being  spoken  of  as  "  the  phenomenal 

83 


84  THE  SEEKER 

California  baritone."  His  admiring  son  envied  the 
fortunate  people  of  those  cities. 

Again  he  would  be  touring  the  world  of  cities 
with  some  simple  article  of  household  use  which, 
from  his  luxurious  barouche,  he  was  merely  introducing 
for  the  manufacturers — perhaps  a  rare  cleaning-fluid,  a 
silver-polish,  or  that  ingenious  tool  which  will  sharpen 
knives  and  cut  glass,  this  being,  indeed,  one  of  his 
prized  staples.  It  appeared — so  the  little  boy  heard  him 
tell  Milo  Barrus — that  few  men  could  resist  buying  a 
tool  with  which  he  actually  cut  a  pane  of  glass  into 
strips  before  their  eyes;  that  one  beholding  the  sea  of 
hands  waving  frantically  up  to  him  with  quarters  in 
them,  after  his  demonstration,  would  have  reason  to 
believe  that  all  men  had  occasion  to  slice  off  a  strip  of 
glass  every  day  or  so.  Instead  of  this,  as  an  observer 
of  domestic  and  professional  life,  he  believed  that  out 
of  the  thousands  to  whom  he  had  sold  this  tool,  not  ten 
had  ever  needed  to  cut  glass,  nor  ever  would. 

There  was  another  who  continued  indifferent  to  the 
personal  estate  of  this  father.  This  was  Grandfather 
Delcher,  who  had  never  seen  him  since  that  bleak  day 
when  he  had  tried  to  bury  the  memory  of  his  daughter. 
When  the  perfect  father  came  to  Edom  the  grandfather 
went  to  his  room  and  kept  there  so  closely  that  neither 
ever  beheld  the  other.  The  little  boy  was  much  puzzled 
by  this  apparently  intentional  avoidance  of  each  other 
by  two  men  of  such  rare  distinction,  and  during  the 
early  visits  of  his  father  he  was  fruitful  of  suggestion 
for  bringing  them  together.  But  when  he  came  to 
understand  that  they  remained  apart  by  wish  of  the 
elder  man,  he  was  troubled.  He  ceased  then  all  efforts 
to  arrange  a  meeting  to  which  he  had  looked  forward 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE   GRATCHER    85 

with  pride  in  his  office  of  exhibiting  each  personage 
to  the  other.  But  he  was  grieved  toward  his  grand 
father,  becoming  sharp  and  even  disdainful  to  the  queer, 
silent  old  man,  at  those  times  when  the  father  was  in 
the  village.  He  could  have  no  love  and  but  little 
friendliness  for  one  who  slighted  his  dear  father.  And 
so  a  breach  widened  between  them  from  year  to  year, 
as  the  child  grew  stouter  fibre  into  his  sentiments  of 
loyalty  and  justice. 

Meantime,  age  crept  upon  the  little  boy,  relentlessly 
depriving  him  of  this  or  that  beloved  idol,  yet  not 
unkindly  leaving  with  him  the  pliant  vitality  that  could 
fashion  others  to  be  still  more  warmly  cherished. 

With  Nancy,  on  afternoons  when  cool  shadows  lay 
across  the  lawn  between  their  houses,  he  often  discussed 
these  matters  of  life.  Nancy  herself  had  not  been 
spared  the  common  fate.  Being  now  a  mere  graceless 
rudiment  of  humanity,  all  spindling  arms  and  legs,  save 
for  a  puckered,  freckled  face,  she  was  past  the  witless 
time  of  expecting  to  pick  up  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing 
and  find  it  a  fairy  godmother  who  would  give  her  three 
wishes.  It  was  more  plausible  now  that  a  prince,  "all 
dressed  up  in  shiny  Prince  Clothes,"  would  come 
riding  up  on  a  creamy  white  horse,  lift  her  to  the  saddle 
in  front  of  him  and  gallop  off,  calling  her  "My  beautiful 
darling!"  while  Madmasel,  her  uncle,  and  Betsy,  the 
cook,  danced  up  and  down  on  the  front  piazza  impo- 
tently  shouting  "  Help !"  She  suspected  then,  when  it 
was  too  late,  that  certain  people  would  bitterly  wish 
they  had  acted  in  a  different  manner.  If  this  did  not 
happen  soon,  she  meant  to  go  into  a  convent  where  she 
would  not  be  forever  told  things  for  her  own  good  by 
those  arrogantly  pretending  to  know  better,  and  where 


86  THE  SEEKER 

she  could  devote  a  quiet  life  to  the  bringing  up  of  her 
children. 

The  little  boy  sympathised  with  her.  He  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  disappointed  in  one's  family.  The  family 
he  would  have  chosen  for  his  own  was  that  of  which  two 
excellent  views  were  given  on  the  circus  bills.  In  one 
picture  they  stood  in  line,  maddeningly  beautiful  in 
their  pink  tights,  ranging  from  the  tall  father  and 
mother  down  through  four  children  to  a  small  boy  that 
always  looked  much  like  himself.  In  the  other  picture 
these  meritorious  persons  were  flying  dizzily  through 
the  air  at  the  very  top  of  the  great  tent,  from  trapeze  to 
trapeze,  with  the  littlest  boy  happily  in  the  greatest 
danger,  midway  in  the  air  between  the  two  proud 
parents,  who  were  hurling  him  back  and  forth. 

It  was  absurd  to  think  of  anything  like  this  in  con 
nection  with  a  family  of  which  only  one  member  had 
either  courage  or  ambition.  One  had  only  to  study 
Clytie  or  Grandfather  Delcher  a  few  moments  to 
see  how  hopeless  it  all  was. 

The  next  best  life  to  be  aspired  to  was  that  of  a  house- 
painter,  who  could  climb  about  unchided  on  the  frailest 
of  high  scaffolds,  swing  from  the  dizziest  cupola,  or 
sway  jauntily  at  the  top  of  the  longest  ladder — always 
without  the  least  concern  whether  he  spilled  paint  on  his 
clothes  or  not. 

Then,  all  in  a  half -hour,  one  afternoon,  both  he  and 
Nancy  seemed  to  cross  a  chasm  of  growth  so  wide  that 
one  thrilled  to  look  back  to  the  farther  side  where  all 
objects  showed  little  and  all  interests  were  juvenile. 
And  this  phenomenon,  signalised  by  the  passing  of  the 
Gratcher,  came  in  this  wise.  As  they  rested  from 
play — this  being  a  time  when  the  Gratcher  was  most 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  GRATCHER     87 

likely  to  be  seen  approaching  by  him  of  the  Gratcher- 
eye,  the  usual  alarm  was  given,  followed  by  the  usual 
unbreathing  silence.  The  little  boy  fixedly  bent  his 
magic  eye  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  the  little  girl 
scrambling  to  him  over  the  grass  to  clutch  one  of  his 
arms,  to  listen  fearfully  for  the  setting  of  the  monster's 
crutches  at  the  end  of  each  stride,  to  feel  if  the  earth 
trembled,  as  it  often  distinctly  did,  under  his  awful 
tread. 

Wider  grew  the  eyes  of  both  at  each  "Now  he's  nearer 
still!"  of  the  little  boy,  until  at  last  the  girl  must  hide 
her  head  lest  she  see  that  awful  face  leering  past  the 
corner.  For,  once  the  Gratcher's  eye  met  yours 
fairly,  he  caught  you  in  an  instant  and  worked  his  will. 
This  was  to  pick  you  up  and  look  at  you  on  all  sides 
at  once  with  the  eyes  in  his  finger-ends,  which  tickled 
you  so  that  you  lost  your  mind. 

But  now,  at  the  shrillest  and  tensest  report  of  progress 
from  the  gifted  watcher,  all  in  a  wondrous  second  of 
realisation,  they  turned  to  look  into  each  other's  eyes — 
and  their  ecstasy  of  terror  was  gone  in  the  quick  little 
self-conscious  laughs  they  gave.  It  was  all  at  once 
as  if  two  grown-ups  had  in  a  flash  divined  that  they  had 
been  playing  at  a  childish  game  under  some  spell.  The 
moment  was  not  without  embarrassment,  because  of 
their  having  caught  themselves  in  the  very  act  and 
frenzy  of  showing  terror  of  this  clumsy  fiction.  Foolishly 
they  averted  their  glances,  after  that  first  little  laugh  of 
sudden  realisation;  but  again  their  eyes  met,  and  this 
time  they  laughed  loud  and  long  with  a  joy  that  took 
away  not  only  all  fears  of  the  Gratcher  forever,  but 
their  first  embarrassment  of  themselves.  Then,  with 
no  word  of  the  matter  whatsoever,  each  knowing  that 


88  THE  SEEKER 

the  other  understood,  they  began  to  talk  of  life  again, 
feeling  older  and  wiser,  which  truly  they  were. 

For,  though  many  in  time  wax  brave  to  beard  their 
Gratcher  even  in  his  lair,  only  the  very  wise  learn  this — 
that  the  best  way  to  be  rid  of  him  is  to  laugh  him  away 
— that  no  Gratcher  ever  fashioned  by  the  ingenuity  of 
terror-loving  humans  can  keep  his  evil  power  over  one 
to  whom  he  has  become  funny. 

The  passing  of  the  Gratcher  had  left  no  pedestal 
crying  for  another  idol.  In  its  stead,  for  his  own 
chastening  and  with  all  reverence,  the  little  boy  erected 
the  spirit  of  that  God'  which  the  Bible  tells  of,  who  is 
all-wise  and  loving,  yet  no  sentimentalist,  as  witness 
his  sudden  devastations  among  the  first-born  of  all 
things,  from  white  rabbits  to  men. 

But  an  idol  next  went  down  that  not  only  left  a 
wretched  vacancy  in  the  boy's  pantheon,  but  fell 
against  his  heart  and  made  an  ugly  wound.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  become  suddenly  clear-seeing  on  that  day 
when  the  Gratcher  shrivelled  in  the  blast  of  his  laugh. 

A  little  later  came  the  father  on  his  annual  visit,  and 
the  dire  thing  was  done.  The  most  ancient  and 
honoured  of  all  the  idols  fell  with  a  crash.  A  perfect 
father  was  lost  in  some  common,  swaggering,  loud- 
voiced,  street-mannered  creature,  grotesquely  self- 
satisfied,  of  a  cheap,  shabby  smartness,  who  came 
flaunting  those  things  he  should  not  have  flaunted,  and 
proclaiming  in  every  turn  of  his  showy  head  his  lack 
of  those  things  without  which  the  little  boy  now  saw  no 
one  could  be  a  gentleman. 

He  cried  in  his  bed  that  night,  after  futile  efforts  to 
believe  that  some  fearful  change  had  been  wrought  in  his 
father.  But  his  memory  of  former  visits  was  scrupu- 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  GRATCHER     89 

lously  photographic — phonographic  even.  He  recalled 
from  the  past  certain  effects  once  keenly  joyed  in  that 
now  made  his  cheeks  burn.  The  things  rioted  brutally 
before  him,  until  it  seemed  that  something  inside  of 
him  strove  to  suppress  them — as  if  a  shamed  hand 
reached  out  from  his  heart  to  brush  the  whole  offense 
into  decent  hiding  with  one  quick  sweep. 

This  time  he  took  care  that  Nancy  should  not  meet 
his  father.  Yet  he  walked  the  streets  with  him  as 
before — walking  defiantly  and  with  shame  those  streets 
through  which  he  had  once  led  the  perfect  father  in 
festal  parade,  to  receive  the  applause  of  a  respectful 
populace.  Now  he  went  forth  awkwardly,  doggedly, 
keen  for  signs  that  others  saw  what  he  did,  and  quick 
to  burn  with  bitter,  unreasoning  resentment,  when  he 
detected  that  they  did  so.  Once  his  father  rallied  him 
upon  his  "  grumpiness " ;  then  he  grew  sullen — though 
trying  to  smile — thinking  with  mortification  of  his, 
grandfather.  He  understood  the  old  man  now. 

He  was  glad  when  the  week  came  to  an  end.  Bruised, 
bewildered,  shamed,  but  loyal  still  and  resentful  toward 
others  who  might  see  as  he  did,  he  was  glad  when  his 
father  went — this  time  as  Professor  Alfiretti,  doing  a 
twenty-minute  turn  of  hypnotism  and  mind-reading 
with  the  Gus  Levy  All-Star  Shamrock  Vaudeville, 
playing  the  "ten-twenty-thirties,"  whatever  they  were! 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  STRONG  PERSON'S  NARRATIVE 

NEAR  the  close  of  the  following  winter  came  news  of 
the  father's  death.  In  some  town  of  which  the  boy 
had  never  heard,  in  another  State,  a  ramshackle  wooden 
theatre  had  burned  one  night  and  the  father  had 
perished  in  the  fire  through  his  own  foolhardiness. 
The  news  came  by  two  channels:  first,  a  brief  and  un- 
illuminating  paragraph  in  the  newspaper,  giving  little 
more  than  the  fact  itself. 

But  three  days  later  came  a  friend  of  the  father, 
bringing  his  few  poor  effects  and  a  full  relation  of  the 
^matter.  He  was  a  person  of  kind  heart,  evidently,  to 
whom  the  father  had  spoken  much  of  his  boys  in  Edom 
— a  bulky,  cushiony,  youngish  man  who  was  billed  on 
the  advertising  posters  of  the  Gus  Levy  All-Star 
Shamrock  Vaudeville  as  "Samson  the  Second,"  with 
a  portrait  of  himself  supporting  on  the  mighty  arch 
of  his  chest  a  grand  piano,  upon  which  were  super 
imposed  three  sizable  and  busy  violinists. 

He  told  his  tale  to  the  two  boys  and  Clytie,  Grand 
father  Delcher  having  wished  to  hear  no  more  of  the 
occurrence. 

"You  understan',  it  was  like  this  now,"  he  began, 
after  having  with  a  calculating  eye  rejected  two  proffered 
chairs  of  delicate  structure  and  selected  a  stout 
wooden  rocker  into  which  he  settled  tentatively,  as 

90 


THE  STRONG   PERSON'S  NARRATIVE    91 

one  whom    experience    had   taught   to   distrust   most 
of  the  chairs  in  common  use. 

''The  people  in  front  had  got  out  all  right,  the  fire 
havin'  started  on  the  stage  from  the  strip-light,  and  also 
our  people  had  got  out  through  the  little  stage-entrance, 
though  havin'  to  leave  many  of  our  props — a  good  coat 
I  had  to  lose  meself,  fur-lined  around  the  collar,  by 
way  of  helpin'  the  Sisters  Devere  get  out  their  box  of 
accordions  that  they  done  a  Dutch  Daly  act  wdth  for 
an  enn-core.  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  we'd  all  hustled 
down  these  back  stairs — they  was  already  red  hot  and 
smokin'  up  good,  you  understan',  and  there  we  was 
shiverin'  outside  in  the  snow,  kind  of  rattled,  and  no 
wonder,  at  that,  and  the  ladies  of  the  troupe  histurrical 
— it  had  come  like  a  quick-change,  you  understan', 
when  all  of  a  sudden  up  in  the  air  goes  the  Original 
Kelly.  Say,  he  lets  out  a  yell  for  your  life — 'Oh,  my 
God!'  he  says,  'my  kids — up  there,'  pointin'  to  where 
the  little  flames  was  spittin'  out  through  the  side  like  a 
fire-eatin'  act.  Then  down  he  flops  onto  his  knees  in 
the  snow,  prayin'  like  the — prayin'  like  mad,  you  under 
stan',  and  callin'  on  the  blessed  Virgin  to  save  little 
Patsy,  who  was  just  gittin'  good  with  his  drum-major 
act  and  whirlin'  a  fake  musket — and  also  little  Joseph, 
who  was  learnin'  to  do  some  card-tricks  that  wasn't  so 
bad.  Well,  so  everybody  begins  to  scream  louder  and 
run  this  way  and  that,  you  understan',  callin'  the  kids 
and  thinkin'  Kelly  was  nutty,  because  they  must  'a  got 
out.  But  Kelly  keeps  right  on  prayin'  to  the  holy 
Virgin,  the  tears  runnin'  down  his  make-up — say,  he 
looked  awful,  on  the  dead!  And  then  we  hears  another 
yell,  and  here  was  Prof,  at  the  window  with  one  of 
the  kids,  sure  enough.  He'd  got  up  them  two  flights 


92  THE  SEEKER 

of  stairs,  though  they  was  all  red  smoky,  like  when  you 
see  fire  through  smoke.  Well,  he  motions  to  catch  the 
kid,  so  we  snatches  a  cloak  off  one  of  the  girls  and  holds 
it  out  between  us,  you  understand  while  he  leans  out 
and  drops  the  kid  into  it,  all  safe  arid  sound. 

"Just  then  we  seen  the  place  all  light  up  back  of  him, 
and  we  yelled  to  him  to  jump,  too — he  could  'a  saved 
himself,  you  understand  but  he  waves  his  hand  and 
shook  his  head — say,  lookin'  funny,  too,  with  his 
mus-tache  half  burned  off,  and  we  seen  him  go  back 
out  of  sight  for  the  other  little  Kelly — Kelly  still 
promisin'  to  give  up  all  he  had  to  the  Virgin  if  she 
saved  his  boys. 

"Well,  for  a  minute  the  crowd  kep'  still,  kind  'a 
holdin'  its  breath,  you  understand  till  the  Prof,  'd  come 
back  with  the  other  kid — and  holdin'  it  and  holdin'  it 
till  the  fire  gits  brighter  and  brighter  through  the 
window — and — nothin'  happens,  you  understan' — just 
the  fire  keeps  on  gittin'  busy.  Honest,  I  begun  to  feel 
shaky,  but  then  up  comes  one  of  these  day-after-to 
morrow  fire-departments,  like  they  have  in  them  towns, 
with  some  fine  painted  ladders  and  a  nice  new  hose-cart, 
and  there  was  great  doings  with  these  Silases  screamin' 
to  each  other  a  foot  away  through  their  fire-trumpets, 
only  the  stairs  had  been  ablaze  ever  since  the  Prof,  got 
up  'em,  and  before  any  one  does  anything  the  whole 
inside  caves  in  and  the  blaze  goes  way  up  to  the  sky. 

"Well,  of  course,  that  settles  it,you  understan' — about 
the  little  Kelly  and  the  Prof.  We  drags  the  original 
Kelly  away  to  a  drug-store  on  the  corner  of  the  next 
block,  where  they  was  workin'  over  the  kid  Prof,  saved 
— it  was  Patsy — and  Kelly  was  crazy;  but  the  Doc. 
was  bringin'  the  kid  around  all  right,  when  one  of  the 


THE  STRONG  PERSON'S  NARRATIVE    93 

Miss  Deveres,  she  has  to  come  nutty  all  to  once — say, 
she  sounded  like  the  parrot-house  in  Central  Park, 
laughin'  till  you'd  think  she'd  bust,  only  it  sounded  like 
she  was  cryin'  at  the  same  time,  and  screamin'  out  at 
the  top  of  her  voice,  'Oh,  he  looked  so  damned  funny 
with  his  mus-tsiche  burned  off!  Oh,  he  looked  so 
damned  funny  with  his  raws-tache  burned  off!' — way 
up  high  like  that,  over  and  over.  Well,  so  she  has  to 
be  held  down  till  the  Doc.  jabs  her  arm  full  of  knock 
outs.  Honest,  I  needed  the  dope  myself  for  fair  by 
that  time,  what  with  the  lady  bein'  that  way  I'm  Ja 
tellin'  you,  and  Kelly,  the  crazy  Irishman — I  could 
hear  him  off  in  one  corner  givin'  his  reg'ler  stunt  about 
his  friend,  O'Houlihan,  lately  landed  and  lookin'  for 
work,  comes  to  a  sausage  factory  and  goes  up  to  the 
boss  and  says,  'Begobs!' — you  know  the  old  gag — say, 
I  run  out  in  the  snow  and  looked  over  to  the  crowd 
around  the  fire  and  thought  of  Prof,  pokin'  around  in 
that  dressin'-room  for  Kelly's  other  kid,  when  he 
might  'a  jumped  after  he  got  the  first  one,  and,  say, 
this  is  no  kid — first  thing  I  knew  I  begin  to  bawl  like 
a  baby. 

"Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  there  I  am  and  all  I  can  see 
through  the  fog  is  one  'a  these  here  big  lighted  signs 
down  the  street  with  ' George's  Place'  on  it,  and  a 
pitcher  of  a  big  glass  of  beer.  Me  to  George's,  at  once. 
When  Levy  himself  finds  me  there,  about  daylight, 
I'm  tryin'  to  tell  a  gang  of  Silases  how  it  all  happened 
and  chokin'  up  every  time  so's  I  have  to  have  another. 

"Well,  of  course,  we  break  up  next  day.  Kelly  tells 
me,  after  he  gits  right  again,  that  little  Patsy  was 
saved  by  havin'  one  'a  these  here  scapulars  on — he 
shows  it  to  me  hanging  around  the  kid's  neck,  inside 


94  THE  SEEKER 

his  clothes.  He  says  little  Joseph  must  'a  left  his  off, 
or  he'd  'a'  been  saved,  too.  He  showed  me  a  piece  in 
one  'a  these  little  religious  books  that  says  there  was 
nothing  annoyed  the  devil  like  a  scapular — that  a  man 
can't  be  burned  or  done  dirt  to  in  no  way  if  he  wears 
one.  I  says  it's  a  pity  the  Prof,  didn't  have  one  on,  but 
Kelly  says  they  won't  work  for  Protestants.  But  I 
don't  know — I  never  purtended  to  be  good  on  these 
propositions  of  religious  matters.  And  there  wasn't 
any  chance  of  findin'  the  kid  to  prove  if  Kelly  had  it 
right  or  not. 

"But  the  Prof,  he  was  certainly  a  great  boy  for 
puttin'  up  three-sheets  about  his  own  two  kids;  anybody 
that  would  listen — friend  or  stranger — made  no  dif 
ference  to  him.  He  starred  Jem  to  anybody,  you 
understan' — what  corkers  they  was,  and  all  like  that. 
It  seemed  like  Kelly's  havin'  two  kids  also  kind  'a 
touched  on  his  feelin's.  Honest,  I  ain't  ever  got  so 
worked  up  over  anything  before  in  me  whole  life." 

When  this  person  had  gone  the  old  man  called  the 
two  boys  to  his  room  and  prayed  with  them;  keeping 
the  younger  to  sit  with  him  a  long  time  afterward,  as  if 
feeling  that  his  was  the  heavier  heart. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  NEW  THEORY  OF  A  CERTAIN  WICKED  MAN 

THE  time  of  the  first  sorrow  was  difficult  for  the  boy. 
There  was  that  first  hard  sleep  after  one  we  love  has 
gone — in  which  we  must  always  dream  that  it  is  not 
true — a  sleep  from  which  we  awaken  to  suffer  all  the 
shock  of  it  again.  Then  came  black  nights  when  the 
perfect  love  for  the  perfect  father  came  back  in  all  its 
early  tenderness  to  cry  the  little  boy  to  sleep.  Yet  it 
went  rapidly  enough  at  last,  as  times  of  sorrow  go  for 
the  young.  There  even  came  a  day  when  he  found  in 
a  secret  place  of  his  heart  a  chastened,  hopeful  inquiry 
if  all  might  not  have  been  for  the  best.  He  had  loved 
his  father — there  had  been  between  them  an  unbreakable 
bond;  yet  this  very  love  had  made  him  suffer  at  every 
thought  of  him  while  he  was  living,  whereas  now  he 
could  love  him  with  all  tender  memories  and  with  no 
poisonous  misgivings  about  future  meetings  with  their 
humiliations.  Now  his  father  was  made  perfect  in 
Heaven,  and  even  Grandfather  Delcher — whose  aloof 
ness  here  he  had  ceased  to  blame — would  not  refuse  to 
meet  and  know  him  there. 

Naturally,  then,  he  turned  to  his  grandfather  in  his 
great  need  for  a  new  idol  to  fill  the  vacant  niche. 
Aforetime  the  old  man  in  his  study  upstairs  had  been 
little  more  than  a  gray  shadow,  a  spirit  of  gloom, 
stubbornly  imprisoning  another  spirit  that  would  have 

95 


96  THE  SEEKER 

been  kind  if  it  could  have  escaped.  But  the  little  boy 
drew  near  to  him,  and  found  him  curiously  compan 
ionable.  Where  once  he  had  shunned  him,  he  now 
went  freely  to  the  study  with  his  lessons  or  his  story 
book,  or  for  talk  of  any  little  matter.  His  grandfather, 
it  seemed,  could  understand  many  things  which  so  old 
a  man  could  scarcely  have  been  expected  to  under 
stand.  In  token  of  this  there  would  sometimes  creep 
over  his  brown  old  face  a  soft  light  that  made  it  seem 
as  if  there  must  still  be  within  him  somewhere  the  child 
he  had  once  been;  as  if,  perhaps,  he  looked  into  the 
little  boy  as  into  a  mirror  that  threw  the  sunlight  of  his 
own  boyhood  into  his  time-worn  face.  Side  by  side, 
before  the  old  man's  fire,  they  wrould  talk  or  muse, 
since  they  were  friendly  enough  to  be  silent  if  they 
liked.  Only  one  confidence  the  little  boy  could  not 
bring  himself  to  make:  he  could  not  tell  the  old  man 
that  he  no  longer  felt  hard  toward  him,  as  once  he  had 
done,  for  his  coldness  to  his  father;  that  he  had  divined 
— and  felt  a  great  shame  for — the  true  reason  of  that 
coldness.  But  he  thought  the  old  man  must  under 
stand  without  words.  It  was  hardly  a  matter  to  be 
talked  of. 

About  his  other  affairs,  especially  his  early  imaginings 
and  difficulties,  he  was  free  to  talk;  about  coming  to 
the  Feet,  and  the  Front  Room,  and  being  washed  in  the 
blood,  and  born  again — matters  that  made  the  old  man 
wish  their  intimacy  had  not  been  so  long  delayed. 

But  now  they  made  up  for  lost  time.  Patiently  and 
ably  he  taught  the  little  boy  those  truths  he  needed  to 
know;  to  seek  for  eternal  life  through  the  atoning  blood 
of  the  Saviour,  whose  part  it  had  been  to  purchase  our 
redemption  from  God's  wrath  by  his  death  on  Calvary. 


A  NEW  THEORY  97 

Of  other  matters  more  technical:  of  how  the  love  that 
God  of  necessity  has  for  His  own  infinitely  perfect  being 
is  the  reason  and  the  measure  of  the  hatred  he  has  for 
sin.  Above  all  did  he  teach  the  little  boy  how  to  pray 
for  the  grace  of  effectual  calling,  in  order  that,  being 
persuaded  of  his  sin  and  misery,  he  might  thereafter 
partake  of  justification,  adoption,  sanctification,  and 
those  several  benefits  which,  in  this  life,  do  either 
accompany  or  flow  from  them.  They  looked  forward 
with  equal  eagerness  to  the  day  when  he  should  become 
a  great  and  good  man,  preaching  the  gospel  of  the 
crucified  Son  to  spellbound  throngs. 

Together  they  began  again  the  study  of  the  Scriptures, 
the  little  boy  now  entering  seriously  upon  that  work  of 
writing  commentaries  which  had  once  engaged  Allan. 
In  one  of  these  school-boyish  papers  the  old  man  came 
upon  a  passage  that  impressed  him  as  notable.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  not  only  that  vein  of  poetic 
imagination — without  which  one  cannot  be  a  great 
preacher — but  a  certain  individual  boldness  of  ap 
proach,  monstrous  in  its  naive  sentimentality,  to  be 
sure,  but  indicating  a  talent  that  promised  to  mature 
splendidly. 

"Now  Jesus  told  his  disciples,"  it  ran,  "that  he  must 
be  crucified  before  he  could  take  his  seat  on  the  right 
hand  of  God  and  send  to  hell  those  who  had  rejected 
him.  He  told  them  that  one  of  them  would  have  to 
betray  him,  because  it  must  be  like  the  Father  had  said. 
It  says  at  the  last  supper  Jesus  said,  'The  Son  of  Man 
goeth  as  it  is  written  of  him;  but  woe  unto  that  man  by 
whom  the  Son  of  Man  is  betrayed;  it  had  been  good  for 
that  man  if  he  had  not  been  born.' 

"Now  it  says  that  Satan  entered  into  Judas,  but  it 


98  THE  SEEKER 

looks  to  me  more  like  the  angel  of  the  Lord  might  have 
entered  into  him,  he  being  a  good  man  to  start  with,  or 
our  Lord  would  not  have  chosen  him  to  be  a  disciple. 
Judas  knew  for  sure,  after  the  Lord  said  this,  that  one 
of  the  disciples  had  got  to  betray  the  Saviour  and  go  to 
hell,  where  the  worm  dieth  not  and  the  fire  is  not 
quenched.  Well,  Judas  loved  all  the  disciples  very 
much,  so  he  thought  he  would  be  the  one  and  save  one 
of  the  others.  So  he  went  out  and  agreed  to  betray  him 
to  the  rulers  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver.  He  knew  if  he 
didn't  do  it,  it  might  have  to  be  Peter,  James,  or  John, 
or  some  one  the  Saviour  loved  very  dearly,  because  it 
had  to  be  one  of  them.  So  after  it  was  done  and  he 
knew  the  others  were  saved  from  this  foul  deed,  he  went 
back  to  the  rulers  and  threw  down  their  money,  and 
went  out  and  hung  himself.  If  he  had  been  a  bad  man, 
it  seems  more  like  he  would  have  spent  that  money  in 
wicked  indulgences,  food  and  drink  and  entertain 
ments,  etc.  Of  course,  Judas  knew  he  would  go  to  hell 
for  it,  so  he  was  not  as  lucky  as  Jesus,  who  knew  he 
would  go  to  heaven  and  sit  at  the  right  hand  of  God 
when  he  died,  which  was  a  different  matter  from  Judas's, 
who  would  not  have  any  reward  at  all  but  going  to  hell. 
It  looks  to  me  like  poor  Judas  had  ought  to  be  brought 
out  of  hell-fire,  and  I  shall  pray  Jesus  to  do  it  when  he 
gets  around  to  it." 

However  it  might  be  with  our  Lord's  betrayer,  there 
was  one  soul  now  seen  to  be  deservedly  in  hell.  Through 
the  patient  study  of  the  Scriptures  as  expounded  by 
Grandfather  Delcher,  the  little  boy  presently  found  him 
self  accepting  without  demur  the  old  gentleman's  un 
spoken  but  sufficiently  indicated  opinion.  His  father 
was  in  everlasting  torment — having  been  not  only  un- 


A  NEW  THEORY  M 

baptised,  but  godless  and  a  scoffer.  With  a  quickening 
sense  of  the  majesty  of  that  Spirit  infinitely  good,  a  new 
apprehension  of  His  plan's  symmetry,  he  read  the  words 
meant  to  explain,  to  comfort  him,  silently  indicated  one 
day  by  the  old  man : 

"Hath  not  the  potter  power  over  the  clay,  of  the  same 
lump  to  make  one  vessel  unto  honour,  and  another  unto 
dishonour  ? 

"What  if  God,  willing  to  show  His  wrath,  and  to 
make  His  power  known,  endured  with  much  long  suf 
fering  the  vessels  of  wrath  fitted  to  destruction  ? 

"And  that  he  might  make  known  the  riches  of  his 
glory  on  the  vessels  of  mercy,  which  he  had  afore  pre 
pared  unto  glory." 

It  hurt  at  first,  but  the  young  mind  hardened  to  it 
dutifully — the  big,  laughing,  swaggering,  scoffing  father 
— a  device  of  God  made  for  torment,  that  the  power  of 
the  All-loving  might  show  forth !  If  the  father  had  only 
repented,  he  might  have  gone  straight  to  heaven  as  did 
Cousin  Bill  J.  For  the  latter  had  obtained  grace 
in  his  last  days,  and  now  sang  acceptably  before  the 
thrones  of  the  Father  and  the  Son.  But  the  unbaptised 
scoffer  must  burn  forever — and  the  little  boy  knew  at 
last  what  was  meant  by  "the  majesty  of  God." 


BOOK   TWO 

The  Age  of  Reason 


BOOK  TWO— THE  AGE  OF  REASON 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  REGRETTABLE  DEMENTIA  OF  A  CONVALESCENT 

"You  know  you  please  me — really  you  do!" 

Allan,  perfect  youth  of  the  hazel  eyes  and  tawny 
locks,  bent  upon  inquiring  Nancy  a  look  of  wholly 
pleasant  reassurance,  as  one  wishful  to  persuade  her 
from  doubt. 

"I'm  not  joking  a  bit.  When  I  say  you  please  me,  I 
mean  it." 

His  look  became  rather  more  expansive  with  a  smile 
that  seemed  meant  to  sympathise  guardedly  with  her  in 
her  necessary  rejoicing. 

Meekly,  for  a  long  second,  Nancy  drew  the  black 
curtains  of  her  eyes,  murmuring  from  out  the  friendly 
gloom : 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  Allan!" 

Then,  before  he  could  tell  reasons  for  his  pleasing, 
which  she  divined  he  was  about  to  do,  the  curtains  were 
up  and  the  eyes  wide  open  to  him  with  a  question  about 
Bernal. 

He  turned  to  the  house  and  pointed  up  to  the  two 
open  windows  of  the  study,  in  and  out  of  which  the 
warm  breeze  puffed  the  limp  white  curtains. 

"He's  there,  poor  chap!  He  was  able  to  get  that  far 
for  the  first  time  yesterday,  leaning  on  me  and  Clytie." 

103 


104  THE  SEEKER 

"And  to  think  I  never  knew  he  was  sick  until  we 
came  from  town  last  night.  I'd  surely  have  left  the  old 
school  and  come  before  if  I'd  heard.  I  wouldn't  have 
cared  what  Aunt  Bell  said." 

"Eight  weeks  down,  and  you  know  we  found  he'd 
been  sick  long  before  he  found  it  out  himself — walking 
typhoid,  they  called  it.  He  came  home  from  college 
with  me  Easter  week,  and  Dr.  Merritt  put  him  to  bed 
the  moment  he  clapped  eyes  on  him.  Said  it  was  walk 
ing  typhoid,  and  that  he  must  have  been  worrying 
greatly  about  something,  because  his  nervous  system 
was  all  run  down." 

"And  he  was  very  ill?" 

"  Doctor  Merritt  says  he  went  as  far  as  a  man  can  go 
and  get  back  at  all." 

"  How  dreadful — poor  Bernal !     Oh,  if  he  had  died ! " 

"Out  of  his  head  for  three  weeks  at  a  time — raving 
fearfully.  And  you  know,  he's  quite  like  an  infant  now 
— says  the  simplest  things.  He  laughs  at  it  himself. 
He  says  he's  not  sure  if  he  knows  how  to  read  and  write." 

"Poor,  dear  Bernal!" 

With  some  sudden  arousing  he  studied  her  face 
swiftly  as  she  spoke,  then  continued: 

"Yes,  Bernal's  really  an  awfully  good  chap  at  bot 
tom."  He  turned  again  to  look  up  at  the  study  win 
dows.  "You  know,  I  intend  to  stand  by  that  fellow 
always — no  matter  what  he  does!  Of  course,  I  shall 
not  let  his  being  my  brother  blind  me  to  his  faults — 
doubtless  we  all  have  faults;  but  I  tell  you, 
Nancy,  a  good  heart  atones  for  many  things  in  a 
man's  make-up." 

She  seemed  to  be  waiting,  slightly  puzzled,  but  he 
broke  off — "Now  I  must  hurry  to  mail  these  letters. 


DEMENTIA  OF  A  CONVALESCENT     105 

It's  good  to  be  home  for  another  summer.     You  really 
do  please  me,  Nance!" 

She  thought,  as  he  moved  off,  that  Allan  was  hand 
some — more  than  handsome,  indeed.  He  left  an  imme 
diate  conviction  of  his  superb  vitality  of  body  and  mind, 
the  incarnation  of  a  spirit  created  to  prevail.  Featured 
in  almost  faultless  outline,  of  a  character  unconsciously, 
unaffectedly  proclaiming  its  superior  gravity  among 
human  masses,  he  was  a  planet  destined  to  have  many 
satellites  and  be  satellite  to  none;  an  ego  of  genuine 
lordliness;  a  presence  at  once  masterly  and  decorative. 

And  yet  she  was  conscious  of  a  note — not  positively 
of  discord,  but  one  still  exciting  a  counter-stream  of 
reflection.  She  had  observed  that  each  time  Allan 
turned  his  head,  ever  so  little,  he  had  a  way  of  turning 
his  shoulders  with  it:  the  perfect  head  and  shoulders 
were  swung  with  almost  a  studied  unison.  And  this 
little  thing  had  pricked  her  admiration  with  a  certain 
needle-like  suspicion — a  suspicion  that  the  young  man 
might  be  not  wholly  oblivious  of  his  merits  as  a  spec 
tacle. 

Yet  this  was  no  matter  to  permit  in  one's  mind.  For 
Nancy  of  the  lengthened  skirts  and  the  massed  braids 
was  now  a  person  of  reserves.  Even  in  that  innocent 
insolence  of  first  womanhood,  with  its  tentatively  mali 
cious,  half-conscious  flauntings,  she  was  one  of  reti 
cences  toward  the  world  including  herself,  with  petti 
coats  of  decorum  draping  the  child's  anarchy  of  thought 
— her  luxuriant  young  emotions  "done  up"  sedately 
with  her  hair.  She  was  now  one  to  be  cautious  indeed 
of  imputations  so  blunt  as  this  concerning  Allan.  Be 
sides,  how  nobly  he  had  spoken  of  Bernal.  Then  she 
wondered  why  it  should  seem  noble,  for  Nancy  would 


100  THE  SEEKER 

be  always  a  creature  to  wonder  where  another  would 
accept.  She  saw  it  had  seemed  noble  because  Bernal 
must  have  been  up  to  some  deviltry. 

This  phrase  would  not  be  Nancy's — only  she  knew  it 
to  be  the  way  her  uncle,  for  example,  would  translate 
Allan's  praise  of  his  brother.  She  hoped  Bernal  had 
not  been  very  bad — and  wondered  how  bad. 

Then  she  went  to  him.  Her  first  little  knock  brought 
no  answer,  nor  could  she  be  sure  that  the  second  did. 
But  she  knew  it  was  loud  enough  to  be  heard  if  the  room 
were  occupied,  so  she  gently  opened  the  door  a  crack 
and  peeped  in.  He  lay  on  the  big  couch  across  the 
room  under  the  open  window,  a  scarlet  wool  dressing- 
gown  on,  and  a  steamer-rug  thrown  over  the  lower  part 
of  his  body.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  out  and  up  to 
the  tree  that  appeared  above  the  window.  She  thought 
he  could  not  have  heard  her,  but  he  called: 

"Clytie!" 

She  crossed  the  room  and  bent  a  little  over  to  meet  his 
eyes  when  he  weakly  turned  his  head  on  the  pillow. 

"Nancy!" 

He  began  to  laugh,  sliding  a  thin  hand  toward  one  of 
hers.  The  laugh  did  not  end  until  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes.  She  laughed  with  him  as  a  strong-voiced 
singer  would  help  a  weaker,  and  he  tried  to  put  a  friendly 
force  into  his  grip  of  the  firm-fleshed  little  hand  he  had 
found. 

"Don't  be  flattered,  Nance — it's  only  typhoid  emo 
tion,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  strangely 
unused.  "You  don't  really  overcome  me,  you  know — 
the  sight  of  you  doesn't  unman  me  as  much  as  these 
fond  tears  might  make  you  suspect.  I  shall  feel  that 
way  when  Clytie  brings  my  lunch,  too."  He  smiled 


DEMENTIA  OF  A  CONVALESCENT     107 

and  drew  her  hand  into  both  his  own  as  she  sat  beside 
him. 

"How  plump  and  warm  your  hand  is — all  full  of 
little  whispering  pulses.  My  hands  are  cold  and 
drowsy  and  bony,  and  so  uninterested!  Doesn't 
fever  bring  forward  a  man's  bones  in  the  most 
shameless  way?" 

"Oh,  Bernal — but  you'll  soon  have  them  decently 
hidden  again — indeed,  you're  looking — quite — quite 
plump."  She  smiled  encouragingly.  A  sudden  new 
look  in  his  eyes  made  her  own  face  serious  again. 

"Why,  Nance,  you're  rather  lovely  when  you  smile!" 

She  smiled. 

"Only  then?" 

He  studied  her,  while  she  pretended  to  be  grave. 

He  became  as  one  apart,  giving  her  a  long  look  of 
unbiassed  appraisal. 

"Well — you  know — now  you  have  some  little  odds 
and  ends  of  features — not  bad — no,  not  even  half  bad, 
for  that  matter.  I  can  see  thousands  of  miles  into  your 
eyes — there's  a  fire  smouldering  away  back  in  there — 
it's  all  smoky  and  mysterious  after  you  go  the  first  few 
thousand  miles — but,  I  don't  know — I  believe  the 
smile  is  needed,  Nance.  Poor  child,  I  tell  you  this  as  a 
friend,  for  your  own  good — it  seems  to  make  a  fine  big 
perfection  out  of  a  lot  of  little  imperfections  that  are 
only  fairly  satisfactory." 

She  smiled  again,  brushing  an  escaped  lock  of  hair  to 
its  home. 

"Really,  Nance,  no  one  could  guess  that  mouth  till  it 
melts." 

"I  see — now  I  shall  be  going  about  with  an  endless, 
sickening  grin.  It  will  come  to  that — doubtless  I  shall 


108  THE  SEEKER 

be  murdered  for  it — people  that  do  grin  that  way  always 
make  me  feel  like  murder." 

"And  they  could  never  guess  your  eyes  until  the  little 
smile  runs  up  to  light  their  chandeliers." 

"Dear  me! — Like  a  janitor!" 

" — or  the  chin,  until  the  little  smile  does  curly  things 
all  around  it " 

"There,  now — calm  yourself — the  doctor  will  be  here 
presently — and  you  know,  you're  among  friends " 

" — or  the  face  itself  until  those  little  pink  ripples  get 
to  chasing  each  other  up  to  hide  in  your  hair,  as  they  are 
now.  You  know  you're  blushing,  Nance,  so  stop  it. 
Remember,  it's  when  you  smile;  remember,  also,  that 
smiles  are  born,  not  made.  It's  a  long  time  since  I've 
seen  you,  Nance." 

"Two  years — we  didn't  come  here  last  summer,  you 
know." 

"But  you've  aged — you're  twice  the  woman  you  were 
— so,  on  the  whole,  I'm  not  in  the  least  disappointed  in 
you." 

"Your  sickness  seems  to  have  left  you — well — in  a 
remarkably  unprejudiced  state  of  mind." 

He  laughed.  "That's  the  funny  part  of  it.  Did 
they  tell  you  this  siege  had  me  foolish  for  weeks? 
Honest,  now,  Nance,  here's  a  case — how  many  are 
two  times  two?"  He  waited  expectantly. 

"Are  you  serious?" 

"It  seems  silly  to  you,  doesn't  it — but  answer  as  if  I 
were  a  child." 

"Well — twice  two  are  four — unless  my  own  mind  is 
at  fault." 

"There! — now  I  begin  to  believe  it.  I  suppose,  now, 
it  couldn't  be  anything  else,  could  it  ?  Yesterday  morn- 


DEMENTIA  OF  A  CONVALESCENT     109 

ing  the  doctor  said  something  was  as  plain  as  twice  two 
are  four.  You  know,  the  thing  rankled  in  me  all  day. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  twice  two  ought  to  be  twenty-two. 
Then  I  asked  Clytie  and  she  said  it  was  four,  but  that 
didn't  satisfy  me.  Of  course,  Clytemnestra  is  a  dear 
soul,  and  I  truly  love  her,  but  her  advantages  in  an 
educational  way  have  been  meagre.  She  could  hardly 
be  considered  an  authority  in  mathematics,  even  if  she 
is  the  ideal  cook  and  friend.  But  I  have  more  faith  in 
your  learning,  Nance.  The  doctor's  solution  seems 
plausible,  since  you've  sided  with  him.  I  suppose  you 
could  have  no  motive  for  deceiving  me  ?  " 

She  was  regarding  him  with  just  a  little  anxiety,  and 
this  he  detected. 

"It's  nothing  to  worry  about,  Nance — it's  only  funny. 
I  haven't  lost  my  mind  or  anything,  you  know — spite 
of  my  tempered  enthusiasm  for  your  face — but  this  is  it : 
first  there  came  a  fearful  shock — something  terrible, 
that  shattered  me — then  it  seemed  as  if  that  sickness 
found  my  brain  like  a  school-boy's  slate  with  all  his  little 
problems  worked  out  on  it,  and  wickedly  gave  it  a 
swipe  each  side  with  a  big  wet  sponge.  And  now  I 
seem  to  have  forgotten  all  I  ever  learned.  Clytie  was 
in  to  feed  me  the  inside  of  a  baked  potato  before  you 
came.  After  I'd  fought  with  her  to  eat  the  skin  of  it — 
such  a  beautiful  brown  potato  -  skin,  with  delicious 
little  white  particles  still  sticking  to  the  inside  where  it 
hadn't  all  been  dug  out — and  after  she  had  used  her 
strength  as  no  lady  should,  and  got  it  away  from  me,  it 
came  to  me  all  at  once  that  she  was  my  mother.  Then 
she  assured  me  that  she  was  not,  and  that  seemed  quite 
reasonable,  too.  I  told  her  I  loved  her  enough  for  a 
mother,  anyway — and  the  poor  thing  giggled." 


110  THE  SEEKER 

"Still,  you  have  your  lucid  moments." 

"Ah,  still  thinking  about  the  face?  You  mean  I'm 
lucid  when  you  smile,  and  daffy  when  you  don't.  But 
that's  a  case  of  it — your  face " 

"  My  face  a  case  of  what  f  You're  getting  commer 
cial — even  shoppy.  Really,  if  this  continues,  Mr.  Lin- 
ford,  I  shall  be  obliged 

"A  case  of  it — of  this  blankness  of  mine.  Instead  of 
continuing  my  early  prejudice,  which  I  now  recall  was 
preposterously  in  your  favour,  I  survey  you  coldly  for 
the  first  time.  You  know  I'm  afraid  to  look  at  print 
for  fear  I've  forgotten  how  to  read." 

"Nonsense!" 

"No — I  tell  you  I  feel  exactly  like  one  of  those  chaps 
from  another  planet,  who  are  always  reaching  here  in 
the  H.  G.  Wells's  stories — a  gentleman  of  fine  attain 
ments  in  his  own  planet,  mind  you — bland,  agreeable, 
scholarly — with  marked  distinction  of  bearing,  and  a 
personal  beauty  rare  even  on  a  planet  where  the  flaunt 
ing  of  one's  secretest  bones  is  held  to  betoken  the  only 

beauty  —  you  understand  that  f Well,  I  come 

here,  and  everything  is  different — ideals  of  beauty,  peo 
ple  absurdly  holding  for  flesh  on  their  bones,  for  exam 
ple — numbers,  language,  institutions,  everything.  Of 
course,  it  puzzles  me  a  little,  but  see  the  value  I  ought 
to  be  to  the  world,  having  a  mature  mind,  yet  one  as 
clean  of  preconceptions  and  prejudice  as  a  new-born 
babe's." 

"Oh,  so  that  is  why  you  could  see  that  I'm  not " 

"Also,  why  I  could  see  that  you  are — that's  it,  smile! 
Nance,  you  are  a  dear,  when  you  smile — you  make  a 
man  feel  so  strong  and  protecting.  But  if  you  knew  all 
the  queer  things  I've  thought  in  the  last  week  about 


DEMENTIA  OF  A  CONVALESCENT     111 

time  and  people  and  the  world.  This  morning  I  woke 
up  mad  because  I'd  been  cheated  out  of  the  past. 
Where  is  all  the  past,  Nance?  There's  just  as  much 
past  somewhere  as  there  is  future — if  one's  soul  has  no 
end,  it  had  no  beginning.  Why  not  worry  about  the 
past  as  we  do  about  the  future  ?  First  thing  I'm  going 
to  do — start  a  Worry-About-the-Past  Club,  with  dues 
and  a  president,  and  by-laws  and  things!" 

"Don't  you  think  I'd  better  send  Clytie,  now?" 

"No;  please  wait  a  minute."  He  clutched  her  hand 
with  a  new  strength,  and  raised  on  his  elbow  to  face  her, 
then,  speaking  lower: 

"Nance,  you  know  I've  had  a  feeling  it  wasn't  the 
right  thing  to  ask  the  old  gentleman  this — he  might 
think  I  hadn't  been  studying  at  college — but  you  tell 
me — what  is  this  about  the  atoning  blood  of  Jesus 
Christ  ?  It  was  a  phrase  he  used  the  other  day,  and  it 
stuck  in  my  mind." 

"Bernal — you  surely  know!" 

"Truly  I  don't — it  seems  a  bad  dream  I've  had 
some  time — that's  all — some  awful  dream  about  my 
father." 

"It  was  the  part  of  the  Saviour  to  purchase  our 
redemption  by  his  death  on  Calvary." 

"Our  redemption  from  what?" 

"From  sin,  to  be  sure." 

"What  sin?" 

"Why,  our  sin,  of  course — the  sin  of  Adam  which 
comes  down  to  us." 

"You  say  this  Jesus  purchased  our  redemption  from 
that  sin  by  dying  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  From  whom  did  he  purchase  it  ?" 


112  THE  SEEKER 

"Oh,  dear — this  is  like  a  catechism — from  God,  of 
course." 

"The  God  that  made  Adam?" 

"Certainly." 

"  Oh,  yes — now  I  seem  to  remember  him — he  was  sup 
posed  to  make  people,  and  then  curse  them,  wasn't  he  ? 
And  so  he  had  to  have  his  son  killed  before  he  could 
forgive  Adam  for  our  sins  ?  " 

"No;  before  he  could  forgive  us  for  Adam's  sin, 
which  descended  to  us." 

"Came  down  like  an  entail,  eh?  .  .  .  Adam 
couldn't  disinherit  us?  Well,  how  did  this  God  have 
his  son  die?" 

"Why,  Bernal — you  must  remember,  dear — you 
knew  so  well — don't  you  know  he  was  crucified  ?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do — how  stupid!  And  was  God  very 
cheerful  after  that?  No  more  trouble  about  Adam  or 
anything  ?  " 

"You  must  hush — I  can't  tell  you  about  these  things 
— wait  till  your  grandfather  comes." 

"No,  I  want  to  have  it  from  you,  Nance — grandad 
would  think  I'd  been  slighting  the  classics." 

"Well,  God  takes  to  heaven  with  him  those  who 
believe." 

"Believe  what?" 

"Who  believe  that  Jesus  was  his  only  begotten  son." 

"What  does  he  do  with  those  who  don't  believe  it?" 

"They— they—  Oh,  I  don't  know— really, 

Bernal,  I  must  go  now." 

"Just  a  minute,  Nance!"  He  clutched  more  tightly 
the  hand  he  had  been  holding.  "I  see  now!  I  must 
be  remembering  something  I  knew — something  that 
brought  me  down  sick.  If  a  man  doesn't  believe  God 


DEMENTIA  OF  A  CONVALESCENT     113 

was  capable  of  becoming  so  enraged  with  Adam  that 
only  the  bloody  death  of  his  own  son  would  appease 
his  anger  toward  us,  he  sends  that  man  where — where 
the  worm  doeth  something  or  other — what  is  it  ?  Oh, 
well ! — of  course,  it's  of  no  importance — only  it  came  to 
me  it  was  something  I  ought  to  remember  if  grandad 
should  ask  me  about  it.  What  a  quaint  belief  it  must 
have  been." 

"Oh,  I  must  go! — let  me,  now." 

"Don't  you  find  it  interesting,  Nance,  rummaging 
among  these  musty  old  religions  of  a  dead  past — 
though  I  admit  that  this  one  is  less  pleasant  to  study 
than  most  of  the  others.  This  god  seems  to  lack  the 
majesty  and  beauty  of  the  Greek  and  the  integrity  of 
the  Norse  gods.  In  fact,  he  was  too  crude  to  be  funny 
— by  the  way,  what  is  it  I  seem  to  recall,  about  eating 
the  flesh  and  drinking  the  blood  of  the  son? — ' unless 
ye  eat  the  flesh  of  the  son ": 

She  drew  her  hand  from  his  now  and  arose  in  some 
dismay.  He  lay  back  upon  his  pillow,  smiling. 

"Not  very  agreeable,  is  it,  Nance?  Well,  come 
again,  and  I'll  tell  you  about  some  of  the  pleasanter 
old  faiths  next  time — I  remember  now  that  they  inter 
ested  me  a  lot  before  I  was  sick." 

"You're  sure  I  shouldn't  send  Clytie  or  some  one?" 
She  looked  down  at  him  anxiously,  putting  her  hand 
on  his  forehead.  He  put  one  of  his  own  lightly  over 
hers. 

"No,  no,  thank  you!  It's  not  near  time  yet  for  the 
next  baked  potato.  If  Clytie  doesn't  give  up  the  skin 
of  this  one  I  shall  be  tempted  to  forget  that  she's  a 
woman.  There,  I  hear  grandad  coming,  so  you  won't 
be  leaving  me  alone." 


114  THE  SEEKER 

Grandfather  Delcher  came  in  cheerily  as  Nancy  left 
the  room. 

"  Resting,  my  boy  ?  That's  good.  You  look  brighter 
already — Nancy  must  come  often." 

He  took  Nancy's  chair  by  the  couch  and  began  the 
reading  of  his  morning's  mail.  Bernal  lay  still  with 
eyes  closed  during  the  reading  of  several  letters;  but 
when  the  old  man  opened  out  a  newspaper  with  little 
rustlings  and  pats,  he  turned  to  him. 

"Well,  my  boy?" 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  something  funny.  You  know, 
my  memory  is  still  freakish,  and  things  come  back  in 
splotches.  Just  now  I  was  recalling  a  primitive  Bra 
zilian  tribe  in  whose  language  the  word  'we'  means 
also  'good.'  'Others,'  which  they  express  by  saying 
'not  we,'  means  also  'evil.'  Isn't  that  a  funny  trait  of 
early  man — we — good;  not  we — bad!  I  suppose  our 
own  tongue  is  but  an  elaboration  of  that  simple  bit  of 
human  nature — a  training  of  polite  vines  and  flowering 
shrubs  over  the  crude  lines  of  it. 

"And  this  tribe — the  Bakairi,  it  is  called — is  equally 
crude  in  its  religion.  It  is  true,  sir,  is  it  not,  that  the 
most  degraded  of  the  savages  tribes  resort  to  human 
sacrifice  in  their  religious  rites  ? " 

"Generally  true.  Human  sacrifice  was  practised 
even  by  some  who  were  well  advanced,  like  the  Aztecs 
and  Peruvians." 

"Well,  sir,  this  Bakairi  tribe  believed  that  its  god 
demanded  a  sacrifice  yearly,  and  their  priests  taught 
them  that  a  certain  one  of  their  number  had  been  sent 
by  their  god  for  this  sacrifice  each  year;  that  only  by 
butchering  this  particular  member  of  the  tribe  and — 
incredible  as  it  sounds — eating  his  body  and  drinking 


DEMENTIA  OF  A  CONVALESCENT      115 

his  blood,  could  they  avert  drouth  and  pestilence  and 
secure  favours  for  the  year  to  come.  I  remember  the 
historian  intimated  that  it  were  well  not  to  incur  the 
displeasure  of  any  priest;  that  one  doing  this  might 
find  it  followed  by  an  unpleasant  circumstance  when 
the  time  came  for  the  priests  to  designate  the  next 
yearly  sacrifice/' 

"  Curious,  indeed,  and  most  revolting,"  assented  the 
old  man,  laying  down  his  paper.  "You  are  feeling 
more  cheerful,  aren't  you — and  you  look  so  much 
brighter.  Ah,  what  a  mercy  of  God's  you  were  spared 
to  me ! — you  know  you  became  my  walking-stick  when 
you  were  a  very  little  boy — I  could  hardly  go  far  without 
you  now,  my  son." 

"Yes,  sir — thank  you — I've  just  been  recalling  some 
of  the  older  religions — Nancy  and  I  had  quite  a  talk 
about  the  old  Christian  faith." 

"I'm  glad  indeed.  I  had  sometimes  been  led  to 
suspect  that  Nancy  was  the  least  bit — well,  frivolous — 
but  I  am  an  old  man,  and  doubtless  the  things  that 
seem  best  to  me  are  those  I  see  afar  off,  their  colour 
subdued  through  the  years." 

"Nancy  wasn't  a  bit  frivolous  this  morning — on  the 
contrary,  she  seemed  for  some  reason  to  consider  me 
the  frivolous  one.  She  looked  shocked  at  me  more 
than  once.  Now,  about  the  old  Christian  faith,  you 
know — their  god  was  content  with  one  sacrifice,  instead 
of  one  each  year,  though  he  insisted  on  having  the  body 
eaten  and  the  blood  drunk  perpetually.  Yet  I  sup 
pose,  sir,  that  the  Christian  god,  in  this  limiting  of  the 
human  sacrifice  to  one  person,  may  be  said  to  show  a 
distinct  advance  over  the  god  of  the  Bakairi,  though 
he  seems  to  have  been  equally  a  tribal  god,  whose  chief 


116  THE  SEEKER 

function  it  was  to  make  war  upon  neighbouring 
tribes." 

"Yes,  my  boy — quite  so,"  replied  the  old  man  most 
soothingly.  He  stepped  gently  to  the  door.  Half 
way  down  the  hall  Allan  was  about  to  turn  into  his 
room.  He  came,  beckoned  by  the  old  man,  who  said, 
in  tones  too  low  for  Bernal  to  hear: 

"Go  quickly  for  Dr.  Merritt.  He's  out  of  his  head 
again." 


CHAPTER  II 

FURTHER  DISTRESSING  FANTASIES  OF  A 
CLOUDED  MIND 

WHEN  young  Dr.  Merritt  came,  flushed  and  impor 
tant-looking,  greatly  concerned  by  the  reported  relapse, 
he  found  his  patient  with  normal  pulse  and  temperature 
— rational  and  joyous  at  his  discovery  that  the  secret 
of  reading  Roman  letters  was  still  his. 

"I  was  almost  afraid  to  test  it,  Doctor,"  he  confessed, 
smilingly,  when  the  little  thermometer  had  been  taken 
from  between  his  lips,  "but  it's  all  right — I  didn't  find 
a  single  strange  letter — every  last  one  of  them  meant 
something — and  I  know  figures,  too — and  now  I'm  as 
hungry  for  print  as  I  am  for  baked  potatoes.  You 
know,  never  in  my  life  again,  after  I'm  my  own  master, 
shall  I  neglect  to  eat  the  skin  of  my  baked  potato. 
When  I  think  of  those  I  let  go  in  my  careless  days  of 
plenty,  I  grow  heart-sick." 

"A  little  at  a  time,  young  man.  If  they  let  you  gorge 
as  you'd  like  to  there  would  be  no  more  use  sending  for 
me;  you'd  be  a  goner — that's  what  you'd  be!  Head 
feel  all  right?" 

"Fine! — I've  settled  down  to  a  pleasant  reading  of 
Holy  Writ.  This  Old  Testament  is  mighty  interesting 
to  me,  though  doubtless  I've  read  it  all  before." 

"It's  a  very  complicated  case,  but  I  think  he's  coming 
on  all  right,"  the  doctor  assured  the  alarmed  old  man 

117 


118  THE  SEEKER 

outside  the  door.  "  He  may  be  a  little  flighty  now  and 
then,  but  don't  pay  any  attention  to  him;  just  soothe 
him  over.  He's  getting  back  to  himself — stronger 
every  hour.  We  often  have  these  things  to  contend 
with." 

And  the  doctor,  outwardly  confident,  went  away  to 
puzzle  over  the  case. 

Again  the  following  morning,  when  Bernal  had 
leaned  his  difficult  way  down  to  the  couch  in  the  study, 
the  old  man  was  dismayed  by  his  almost  unspeakable 
aberrations.  With  no  sign  of  fever,  with  a  cool  brow 
and  placid  pulse,  in  level  tones,  he  spoke  the  words  of 
the  mad. 

"You  know,  grandad,"  he  began  easily,  looking  up 
at  the  once  more  placid  old  man  who  sat  beside  him, 
"I  am  just  now  recalling  matters  that  were  puzzling 
me  much  before  the  sickness  began  to  spin  my  head 
about  so  fast  on  my  shoulders.  The  harder  I  thought, 
the  faster  my  head  went  around,  until  it  sent  my  mind 
all  to  little  spatters  in  a  circle  about  me.  One  thing  I 
happened  to  be  puzzling  over  was  how  the  impression 
first  became  current  that  this  god  of  the  Jews  was  a 
being  of  goodness.  Such  an  impression  seems  to  have 
been  tacitly  accepted  for  some  centuries  after  the 
iniquities  so  typical  of  him  had  been  discountenanced 
by  society — long  after  human  sacrifice  was  abhorred, 
and  even  after  the  sacrificing  of  animals  was  held  to  be 
degrading.  It's  a  point  that  escapes  me,  owing  to  my 
addled  brain;  doubtless  you  can  set  me  right.  At 
present  I  can't  conceive  how  the  notion  could  ever  have 
occurred  to  any  one.  I  now  remember  this  book  well 
enough  to  know  that  not  only  is  little  good  ever  recorded 
of  him,  but  he  is  so  continually  barbarous,  and  so 


FURTHER  DISTRESSING  FANTASIES     119 

atrociously  cruel  in  his  barbarities.  And  he  was 
thought  to  be  all-powerful  when  he  is  so  pitifully  inef 
fectual,  with  all  his  crude  power — the  poor  old  fellow 
was  forever  bungling — then  bungling  again  in  his  efforts 
to  patch  up  his  errors.  Indeed,  he  would  be  rather 
a  pathetic  figure  if  he  were  not  so  monstrous!  Still, 
there  is  a  kind  of  heathen  grandeur  about  him  at  times. 
He  drowns  his  world  full  of  people  because  his  first  two 
circumvented  him ;  then  he  saves  another  pair,  but  things 
go  still  worse,  so  he  has  to  keep  smiting  the  world  right 
and  left,  dumb  beasts  as  well  as  men;  and  at  last  he 
picks  out  one  tribe,  in  whose  behalf  he  works  a  series  of 
miracles,  that  devastated  a  wide  area.  How  he  did 
love  to  turn  a  city  over  to  destruction!  And  from  the 
cloud's  centre  he  was  constantly  boasting  of  his  awful 
power,  and  scaring  people  into  butchering  lambs  and 
things  in  his  honour.  Yet,  doubtless,  that  heathen 
tribe  found  its  god  'good/  and  other  people  formed 
the  habit  of  calling  him  good,  without  thinking  much 
about  it.  They  must  have  felt  queer  when  they  woke 
up  to  the  fact  that  they  were  calling  infinitely  good  a  god 
who  was  not  good,  even  when  judged  by  their  poor 
human  standards." 

Remembering  the  physician's  instructions  to  soothe 
the  patient,  the  distressed  old  man  timidly  began 

" '  For  God  so  loved  the  world' " — but  he  was  inter 
rupted  by  the  vivacious  one  on  the  couch. 

"That's  it — I  remember  that  tradition.  He  was 
even  crude  enough  to  beget  a  son  for  human  sacrifice, 
giving  that  son  power  to  condemn  thereafter  those  who 
should  not  detect  his  godship  through  his  human 
envelope!  That  was  a  rather  subtler  bit  of  baseness 
than  those  he  first  perpetrated — to  send  this  saving  son 


120  THE  SEEKER 

in  such  guise  that  the  majority  of  his  creatures  would 
inevitably  reject  him!  Oh!  he  was  bound  to  have  his 
failures  and  his  tortures,  wasn't  he  ?  You  know,  I  dare 
say  the  ancient  Christians  called  him  good  because  they 
were  afraid  to  call  him  bad.  Doubtless  the  one  great 
spiritual  advance  that  we  have  made  since  the  Christian 
faith  prevailed  is,  that  we  now  worship  without  fearing 
what  we  worship." 

Once  more  the  distressed  old  man  had  risen  to  stand 
with  assumed  carelessness  by  the  door,  having  writhed 
miserably  in  his  chair  until  he  could  no  longer  endure 
the  profane  flood. 

"But,  truly,  that  god  was,  after  all,  a  pathetic  figure. 
Imagine  him  amid  the  ruins  of  his  plan,  desolate,  always 
foiled  by  his  creatures — meeting  failure  after  failure 
from  Eden  to  Calvary — for  even  the  bloody  expedient 
of  sending  his  son  to  be  sacrificed  did  not  avail  to  save 
his  own  chosen  people.  They  unanimously  rejected 
the  son,  if  I  remember,  and  so  he  had  to  be  content 
with  a  handful  of  the  despised  Gentiles.  A  sorrowful 
old  figure  of  futility  he  is — a  fine  figure  for  a  big  epic, 
it  seems  to  me.  By  the  way,  what  was  the  date  that 
this  religion  was  laughed  away.  I  can  remember  per 
fectly  the  downfall  of  the  Homeric  deities — how  many 
years  there  were  when  the  common  people  believed  in 
the  divine  origin  of  the  Odyssey,  while  the  educated 
classes  were  more  or  less  discreetly  heretical,  until  at 
last  the  whole  Olympian  outfit  became  poetic  myths. 
But  strangely  enough  I  do  not  recall  just  the  date  when 
we  began  to  demand  a  god  of  dignity  and  morality." 

The  old  man  had  been  loath  to  leave  the  sufferer. 
He  still  stood  by  the  open  door  to  call  to  the  first  passer 
by.  Now,  shudderingly  wishful  to  stem  the  torrent 


FURTHER  DISTRESSING  FANTASIES     121 

of  blasphemies,  innocent  though  they  were,  he  ven 
tured  cautiously: 

"There  was  Sinai you  forget  the  tables — the 

moral  law — the  ten  commandments." 

"Sinai,  to  be  sure.  Christians  used  to  regard  that 
as  an  occasion  of  considerable  dignity,  didn't  they? 
The  time  when  he  gave  directions  about  slavery  and 
divorce  and  polygamy — he  was  beautifully  broad- 
minded  in  all  those  matters,  and  to  kill  witches  and  to 
stone  an  ox  that  gored  any  one,  and  how  to  disembowel 
the  lambs  used  for  sacrifice,  and  what  colours  to  use 
in  the  tabernacle." 

But  the  horrified  old  man  had  fled.  Half  an  hour 
later  he  returned  with  Dr.  Merritt,  relieving  Clytie, 
who  had  watched  outside  the  door  and  who  reported 
that  there  had  been  no  signs  of  violence  within. 

Again  they  found  a  normal  pulse  and  temperature, 
and  an  appetite  clamouring  for  delicacies  of  strong 
meat.  Young  Dr.  Merritt  was  greatly  puzzled. 

"I  understand  the  case  perfectly,"  he  said  to  the  old 
man;  "he  needs  rest  and  plenty  of  good  nursing — and 
quiet.  We  often  have  these  cases.  Your  head  feels 
all  right,  doesn't  it  ?  "  he  asked  Bernal. 

"Fine,  Doctor!" 

"  I  thought  so."  He  looked  shrewdly  at  the  old  man. 
"Your  grandfather  had  an  idea  you  might  be — perhaps 
a  bit  excited." 

"  No — not  a  bit.  We've  had  a  fine  morning  chatting 
over  some  of  the  primitive  religions,  haven't  we,  old 
man?"  and  he  smiled  affectionately  up  to  his  grand 
father.  "Hello,  Nance,  come  and  sit  by  me." 

The  girl  had  paused  in  the  doorway  while  he  spoke, 
and  came  now  to  take  his  hand,  after  a  look  of  inquiry 


122  THE  SEEKER 

at  the  two  men.  The  latter  withdrew,  the  eyes  of  the  old 
man  sadly  beseeching  the  eyes  of  the  physician  for  some 
definite  sign  of  hope. 

Inside,  the  sufferer  lay  holding  a  hand  of  Nancy 
between  his  cheek  and  the  pillow — with  intervals  of 
silence  and  blithe  speech.  His  disordered  mind,  it 
appeared,  was  still  pursuing  its  unfortunate  tangent. 

"The  first  ideas  are  all  funny,  aren't  they,  Nance? 
Genesis  in  that  Christian  mythology  we  were  discussing 
isn't  the  only  funny  one.  There  was  the  old  northern 
couple  who  danced  on  the  bones  of  the  earth  nine  times 
and  made  nine  pairs  of  men  and  women ;  and  there  were 
the  Greek  and  his  wife  who  threw  stones  out  of  their 
ark  that  changed  to  men ;  and  the  Hindu  that  saved  the 
life  of  a  fish,  and  whom  the  fish  then  saved  by  fastening 
his  ship  to  his  horn;  and  the  South  Sea  fisherman  who 
caught  his  hook  in  the  water-god's  hair  and  made  him 
so  angry  that  he  drowned  all  the  world  except  the 
offending  fisherman.  Aren't  they  yearly  as  funny  as 
the  god  who  made  one  of  his  pair  out  of  clay  and  one 
from  a  rib,  and  then  became  so  angry  with  them  that 
he  must  beget  a  son  for  them  to  sacrifice  before  he  would 
forgive  them  ?  Let's  think  of  the  pleasanter  ones.  Do 
you  know  that  hymn  of  the  Veda  ? — 'If  I  go  along  trem 
bling  like  a  cloud,  have  mercy,  Almighty,  have  mercy! 

"'Through  want  of  strength,  thou  strong  and  bright 
God,  have  I  gone  wrong.  Have  mercy,  Almighty,  have 
mercy!' 

"And  Buddha  was  a  pleasant  soul,  Nance — with 
stuff  in  him,  too — born  a  prince,  yet  leaving  his  palace 
to  be  poor  and  to  study  the  ways  of  wisdom,  until 
enlightenment  came  to  him  sitting  under  his  Bo  tree. 
He  said  faith  was  the  best  wealth  here.  And,  '  Not  to 


FURTHER   DISTRESSING  FANTASIES     123 

commit  any  sin,  to  do  good  and  to  purify  one's  mind, 
that  is  the  teaching  of  the  awakened ' ;  *  not  hating  those 
who  hate  us/  'free  from  greed  among  the  greedy/ 
They  must  have  been  glad  of  Buddhism  in  their  day, 
teaching  them  to  honour  their  parents,  to  be  kind  to  the 
sick  and  poor  and  sorrowing,  to  forgive  their  enemies 
and  return  good  for  evil.  And  there  was  funny  old 
Confucius  with  his  'Coarse  rice  for  food,  water  to 
drink,  the  bended  arm  for  a  pillow — happiness  may  be 
enjoyed  even  with  these;  but  without  virtue,  both 
riches  and  honour  seem  to  me  like  the  passing  cloud/ 
Another  one  of  his  is  'In  the  book  of  Poetry  are  three 
hundred  pieces — but  the  designs  of  them  all  mean, 
"Have  no  depraved  thoughts."  Rather  good  for  a 
Chinaman,  wasn't  it? 

"And  there  was  old  Zoroaster  saying  to  his  Ormuzd, 
'I  believe  thee,  O  God!  to  be  the  best  thing  of  all!'  and 
asking  for  guidance.  Ormuzd  tells  him  to  be  pure  in 
thought,  word  and  deed;  to  be  temperate,  chaste  and 
truthful — and  this  Ormuzd  would  have  no  lambs  sac 
rificed  to  him.  Life,  being  his  gift,  was  dear  to  him. 
And  don't  forget  Mohammed,  Nance,  that  fine  old 
barbarian  with  the  heart  of  a  passionate  child,  counsel 
ling  men  to  live  a  good  life  and  to  strive  after  the  mercy 
of  God  by  fasting,  charity  and  prayer,  calling  this  the 
'Key  of  Paradise.'  He  went  after  a  poor  blind  man 
whom  he  had  at  first  rebuffed,  saying  'He  is  thrice 
welcome  on  whose  account  my  Lord  hath  reprimanded 
me.'  He  was  a  fine,  stubborn  old  believer,  Nance.  I 
wonder  if  it's  not  true  that  the  Christians  once  studied 
these  old  chaps  to  take  the  taste  of  their  own  cruder 
God  out  of  their  minds.  What  a  cruel  people  they 
must  have  been  to  make  so  cruel  a  God! 


124  THE  SEEKER 

"But  let's  talk  of  you,  Nance — that's  it — light  the 
chandeliers  in  your  eyes." 

He  spoke  drowsily  now,  and  lay  quiet,  patting  one  of 
her  hands.  But  presently  he  was  on  one  elbow  to  study 
her  again. 

"Nance,  the  Egyptians  worshipped  Nature,  the 
Greeks  worshipped  Beauty,  the  Northern  chaps  wor 
shipped  Courage,  and  the  Christians  feared — well,  the 
hereafter,  you  know — but  I'm  a  Catholic  when  you 
smile." 


CHAPTER  III 
REASON  Is  AGAIN  ENTHRONED 

SLOWLY  the  days  brought  new  life  to  the  convalescent, 
despite  his  occasional  attacks  of  theological  astigma 
tism.  And  these  attacks  grew  less  frequent  and  less 
marked  as  the  poor  bones  once  more  involved  them 
selves  in  firm  flesh — to  the  glad  relief  of  a  harried  and 
scandalised  old  gentleman  whose  black  forebodings 
had  daily  moved  him  to  visions  of  the  mad-house  for 
his  best-loved  descendant. 

Yet  there  were  still  dreadful  times  when  the  young 
man  on  the  couch  blasphemed  placidly  by  the  hour, 
with  an  insane  air  of  assuming  that  those  about  him 
held  the  same  opinions;  as  if  the  Christian  religion  were 
a  pricked  bubble  the  adherents  of  which  had  long  since 
vanished. 

If  left  by  himself  he  could  often  be  heard  chuckling 
and  muttering  between  chuckles:  "I  will  get  me  honour 
upon  Pharaoh  and  all  his  host.  I  have  hardened  his 
heart  and  the  heart  of  his  host  that  I  might  show  these 
my  signs  before  him." 

Entering  the  room,  the  old  gentleman  might  be  met 
with: 

"I  certainly  agree  with  you,  sir,  in  every  respect — 
Christianity  was  an  invertebrate  materialism  of  separa 
tion — crude,  mechanical  separation — less  spiritual,  less 
ethical,  than  almost  any  of  the  Oriental  faiths.  Affirm- 

125 


12(3  THE  SEEKER 

ing  the  brotherhood  of  man,  yet  separating  us  into  a 
heaven  and  a  hell.  Christians  cowering  before  a  being 
of  divided  power,  half-god  and  half-devil.  Indeed,  I 
remember  no  religion  so  non-moral — none  that  is  so 
baldly  a  mere  mechanical  device  for  meeting  the  primi 
tive  mind's  need  to  set  its  own  tribe  apart  from  all 
others — or  in  the  later  growth  to  separate  the  sheep 
from  the  goats,  by  reason  of  the  opinion  formed  of  cer 
tain  evidence.  Even  schoolboys  nowadays  know  that 
no  moral  value  inheres  in  any  opinion  formed  upon 
evidence.  Yet,  I  dare  say  it  was  doubtless  for  a  long 
period  an  excellent  religion  for  marauding  nations." 

Or,  again,  after  a  long  period  of  apparently  rational 
talk,  the  unfortunate  young  man  would  break  out  with, 
"And  how  childish  its  wonder-tales  were,  of  iron  made 
to  swim,  of  a  rod  turned  to  a  serpent,  of  a  coin  found  in 
a  fish's  mouth,  of  devils  asking  to  go  into  swine,  of  a 
fig-tree  cursed  to  death  because  it  did  not  bear  fruit 
out  of  season — how  childish  that  tale  of  a  virgin  mother, 
who  conceived  "without  sin/'  as  it  is  somewhere 
naively  put — an  ideal  of  absolutely  flawless  falsity. 
Even  the  great  old  painters  were  helpless  before  it. 
They  were  driven  to  make  mindless  Madonnas,  stupid 
bits  of  fleshy  animality.  It's  not  easy  to  idealise  mere 
physical  motherhood.  You  see,  that  was  the  wrong, 
perverted  idea  of  motherhood — '  conceiving  without 
sin/  It's  an  unclean  dogma  in  its  implications.  I 
knew  somewhere  once  a  man  named  Milo  Barrus — a 
sort  of  cheap  village  atheist,  I  remember,  but  one  thing 
I  recall  hearing  him  say  seems  now  to  have  a  certain 
crude  truth  in  it.  He  said:  ' There's  my  old  mother, 
seventy-eight  this  spring,  bent,  gray,  and  wasted  with 
the  work  of  raising  us  seven  children;  she's  slaved  so 


REASON  IS  AGAIN  ENTHRONED      127 

hard  for  fifty  years  that  she's  worn  her  wedding-ring 
to  a  fine  thread,  and  her  hands  look  as  if  they  had  a 
thousand  knuckles  and  joints  in  them.  But  she  smiles 
like  a  girl  of  sixteen,  she  was  never  cross  or  bitter  to 
one  of  us  hounds,  and  I  believe  she  never  even 
wanted  to  complain  in  all  her  days.  And  there's  a  look 
of  noble  capacity  in  her  face,  of  soul  dignity,  that  you 
never  saw  in  any  Madonna's.  I  tell  you  no  "virgin 
mother'*  could  be  as  beautiful  as  my  mother,  who  bore 
seven  children  for  love  of  my  father  and  for  love  of  the 
thought  of  us.'  Isn't  it  queer,  sir,  that  I  remember 
that — for  it  seemed  only  grotesque  at  the  time  I  heard 
it." 

It  was  after  this  extraordinary  speech,  uttered  with 
every  sign  of  physical  soundness,  that  young  Dr.  Mer- 
ritt  confided  to  the  old  man  when  they  had  left  the  study : 

"He's  coming  on  fine,  Mr.  Delcher.  He'll  eat  him 
self  into  shape  now  in  no  time;  but — I  don't  know — 
seems  to  me  you  stand  a  lot  better  show  of  making  a 
preacher  out  of  his  brother.  Of  course,  I  may  be  mis 
taken — we  doctors  often  are."  Then  the  young  phy 
sician  became  loftily  humble:  "But  it  doesn't  strike  me 
he'll  ever  get  his  ideas  exactly  into  Presbyterian  shape 
again ! " 

"But,  man,  he'll  surely  be  rid  of  these  devil's  hallu 
cinations?" 

"Well,  well — perhaps,  but  I'm  almost  afraid  they're 
what  we  doctors  call  '  fixed  delusions."' 

"But  I  set  my  heart  so  long  ago  on  his  preaching  the 
Word.  Oh,  I've  looked  forward  to  it  so  long — and  so 
hard!" 

"Well,  all  you  can  do  now  is  to  feed  him  and  not 
excite  him.  We  often  have  these  cases." 


128  THE  SEEKER 

The  very  last  of  Bernal's  utterances  that  could  have 
been  reprobated  in  a  well  man  was  his  telling  Clytie  in 
the  old  gentleman's  presence  that,  whereas  in  his  boy 
hood  he  had  pictured  the  hand  of  God  as  a  big  black 
hand  reaching  down  to  "  remove  "  people — "  the  way  you 
weed  an  onion  bed" — he  now  conceived  it  to  be  like  her 
own — "the  most  beautiful  fat,  red  hand  in  the  world, 
always  patting  you  or  tucking  you  in,  or  reaching  you 
something  good  or  pointing  to  a  jar  of  cookies."  It 
was  so  dangerously  close  to  irreverence  that  it  made 
Clytemnestra  look  stiff  and  solemn  as  she  arranged 
matters  on  the  luncheon  tray;  yet  it  was  so  inoffensive, 
considering  the  past,  that  it  made  Grandfather  Delcher 
quite  hopeful. 

Thereafter,  instead  of  babbling  blasphemies,  the  con 
valescent  became  silent  for  the  most  part,  yet  cheerful 
and  beautifully  rational  when  he  did  speak,  so  that  fear 
came  gradually  to  leave  the  old  man's  heart  for  longer 
and  longer  intervals.  Indeed,  one  day  when  Bernal 
had  long  lain  silent,  he  swept  lingering  doubts  from  the 
old  man's  mind  by  saying,  with  a  curious  little  air  of 
embarrassment,  yet  with  a  return  of  that  old-time  play 
ful  assumption  of  equality  between  them — "I'm  afraid, 
old  man,  I  may  have  been  a  little  queer  in  my  talk — 
back  there." 

The  old  man's  heart  leaped  with  hope  at  this,  though 
the  acknowledgment  struck  him  as  being  inadequate 
to  the  circumstance  it  referred  to. 

"You  were  flighty,  boy,  now  and  then,"  he  replied, 
in  quite  the  same  glossing  strain  of  inadequacy. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  queerly  things  came  back  to 
me — some  bits  of  consciousness  and  memory  came  early 
and  some  came  late — and  they're  still  struggling  along 


REASON  IS  AGAIN  ENTHRONED      129 

in  that  disorderly  procession.  Even  yet  I've  not  been 
able  to  take  stock.  Old  man,  I  must  have  been  an 
awful  bore." 

"Oh,  no— not  that,  boy!"  Then,  in  glad  relief,  he 
fell  upon  his  knees  beside  the  couch,  praying,  in  dis 
creetly  veiled  language,  that  the  pure  heart  of  a  babbler 
might  not  be  held  guilty  for  the  utterances  of  an 
irresponsible  head. 

Yet,  after  many  days  of  sane  quiet  and  ever-renewing 
strength — days  of  long  walks  in  the  summer  woods  or 
long  readings  in  the  hammock  when  the  shadows  lay 
east  of  the  big  house,  there  came  to  be  observed  in  the 
young  man  a  certain  moody  reticence.  And  when  the 
time  for  his  return  to  college  was  near,  he  came  again 
to  his  disquieted  grandfather  one  day,  saying: 

"I  think  there  are  some  matters  I  should  speak  to 
you  about,  sir."  Had  he  used  the  term  "old  man," 
instead  of  "sir,"  there  might  still  have  been  no  cause 
for  alarm.  As  it  was,  the  grandfather  regarded  him  in 
a  sudden,  heart-hurried  fear. 

"Are  the  matters,  boy,  those — those  about  which 
you  may  have  spoken  during  your  sickness?" 

"I  believe  so,  sir." 

The  old  man  winced  again  under  the  "sir,"  when 
his  heart  longed  for  the  other  term  of  playful  familiarity. 
But  he  quickly  assumed  a  lightness  of  manner  to  hide 
the  eagerness  of  his  heart's  appeal : 

"Don't  talk  now,  boy — be  advised  by  me.  It's  not 
well  for  you — you  are  not  strong.  Please  let  me  guide 
you  now.  Go  back  to  your  studies,  put  all  these  mat 
ters  from  your  mind — study  your  studies  and  play  your 
play.  Play  harder  than  you  study — you  need  it  more. 
Play  out  of  doors — you  must  have  a  horse  to  ride.  You 


130  THE  SEEKER 

have  thought  too  much  before  your  time  for  thinking. 
Put  away  the  troublesome  things,  and  live  in  the  flesh 
as  a  healthy  boy  should.  Trust  me.  When  you  come 
to — to  those  matters  again,  they  will  not  trouble  you." 

In  his  eagerness,  first  one  hand  had  gone  to  the  boy's 
shoulder,  then  the  other,  and  his  tones  grew  warm  with 
pleading,  while  the  keen  old  eyes  played  as  a  search 
light  over  the  troubled  young  face. 

"I  must  tell  you  at  least  one  thing,  sir." 

The  old  man  forced  a  smile  around  his  trembling 
mouth,  and  again  assumed  his  little  jaunty  lightness. 

"Come,  come,  boy — not  'sir/  Call  me  'old  man' 
and  you  shall  say  anything." 

But  the  boy  was  constrained,  plainly  in  discomfort. 
"I — I  can't  call  you  that — just  now — sir." 

"Well,  if  you  must,  tell  me  one  thing — but  only  one! 
only  one,  mind  you,  boy!"  In  fear,  but  smiling,  he 
waited. 

"Well,  sir,  it's  a  shock  I  suffered  just  before  I  was 
sick.  It  came  to  me  one  night  when  I  sat  down  to  dinner 
— fearfully  hungry.  I  had  a  thick  English  chop  on  the 
plate  before  me,  and  a  green  salad,  oily  in  its  bowl,  and 
crisp,  browned  potatoes,  and  a  mug  of  creamy  ale.  I'd 
gone  to  the  place  for  a  treat.  I'd  been  whetting  my 
appetite  with  nibbles  of  bread  and  sips  of  ale  until  the 
other  things  came;  and  then,  even  when  I  put  my  knife 
to  the  chop — like  a  blade  pushed  very  slowly  into  my 
heart  came  the  thought :  '  My  father  is  burning  in  hell — 
screaming  in  agony  for  a  drop  of  this  water  which  I  shall 
not  touch  because  I  have  ale.  He  has  been  in  this  agony 
for  years;  he  will  be  there  forever.'  That  was  enough, 
sir.  I  had  to  leave  the  little  feast.  I  was  hungry  no 
longer,  though  a  moment  before  it  had  seemed  that 


REASON  IS  AGAIN  ENTHRONED      131 

I  couldn't  wait  for  it.  I  walked  out  into  the  cold,  raw 
night — walked  till  near  daylight,  with  the  sweat  running 
off  me.  And  the  thing  I  knew  all  the  time  was  this : 
that  if  I  were  in  hell  and  my  father  in  heaven,  he  would 
blaspheme  God  to  His  face  for  a  monster  and  come  to 
hell  to  burn  with  me  forever — come  with  a  joke  and  a 
song,  telling  me  never  to  mind,  that  we'd  have  a  fine 
time  there  in  hell  in  spite  of  everything!  That  was 
what  I  knew  of  my  poor,  cheap,  fiddle-playing  mounte 
bank  of  a  father.  Just  a  moment  more — this  is  what 
you  must  remember  of  me,  in  whatever  I  have  to  say 
hereafter,  that  after  that  night  I  never  ceased  to  suffer 
all  the  hell  my  father  could  be  suffering,  and  I  suffered 
it  until  my  mind  went  out  in  that  sickness.  But,  listen 
now:  whatever  has  happened — I'm  not  yet  sure  what 
it  is — I  no  longer  suffer.  Two  things  only  I  know: 
that  our  creed  still  has  my  godless,  scoffing,  unbaptised 
father  in  hell,  and  that  my  love  for  him — my  absolute 
oneness  with  him — has  not  lessened. 

"I'll  stop  there,  if  you  wish,  leaving  you  to  divine 
what  other  change  has  taken  place." 

"There,  there,"  soothed  the  old  man,  seizing  the 
shoulders  once  more  with  his  strong  grip — "no  more 
now,  boy.  It  was  a  hard  thing,  I  know.  The  con 
sciousness  of  God's  majesty  comes  often  in  that  way, 
and  often  it  overwhelms  the  unprepared.  It  was  hard, 
but  it  will  leave  you  more  a  man;  your  soul  and  your 
faith  will  both  survive.  Do  what  I  have  told  you — as 
if  you  were  once  more  the  puzzled  little  Bernal, 
who  never  could  keep  his  hair  neatly  brushed  like 
Allan,  and  would  always  moon  in  corners.  Go  finish 
your  course.  Another  year,  when  your  mind  has  new 
fortitude  from  your  recreated  body,  we  will  talk 


THE  SEEKER 


these  matters  as  much  as  you  like.  Yet  I  will 
tell  you  one  thing  to  remember  —  just  one,  as  you  have 
told  me  one  :  You  are  in  a  world  of  law,  of  unvarying 
cause  and  effect;  and  the  integrity  of  this  law  cannot 
be  destroyed,  nor  even  impaired,  by  any  conceivable 
rebellion  of  yours.  Yet  this  material  world  of  law  is 
but  the  shadow  of  the  reality,  and  that  reality  is  God  — 
the  moral  law  if  you  please,  as  relentless,  as  inexorable, 
as  immutable  in  its  succession  of  cause  and  effect  as  the 
physical  laws  more  apparent  to  us;  and  as  little  to  be 
overthrown  as  physical  law  by  any  rebellion  of  disor 
dered  sentiment.  The  word  of  this  God  and  this  Law 
is  contained  in  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments,  wherein  is  the  only  rule  to  direct  us  how 
we  may  glorify  and  enjoy  Him. 

"Now,"  continued  the  old  man,  more  lightly,  "each 
of  us  has  something  to  remember  --  and  let  each  of  us 
pray  for  the  other.  Go,  be  a  good  boy  —  but  careless 
and  happy  —  for  a  year." 

The  old  man  had  his  way,  and  the  two  boys  went 
presently  back  to  their  studies. 

The  girl,  Nancy,  remembered  them  well  for  the 
things  each  had  said  to  her. 

Allan,  who,  though  he  constantly  praised  her,  had 
always  the  effect  of  leaving  her  small  to  herself.  "Really, 
Nance,"  he  said,  "without  any  joking,  I  believe  you  have 
a  capacity  for  living  life  in  its  larger  aspects." 

And  on  the  last  day,  Bernal  had  said,  "Nance,  you 
remember  when  we  were  both  sorry  you  couldn't  be 
born  again  —  a  boy  ?  Well,  from  what  the  old  gentle 
man  says,  one  learns  in  time  to  bow  to  the  ways  of 
an  inscrutable  Providence.  I  dare  say  he's  right.  I 
can  see  reasons  now,  my  girl,  why  it  was  well  that 


REASON  IS  AGAIN  ENTHRONED      133 

you  were  not  allowed  to  meddle  with  Heaven's  allot 
ment  of  your  sex.  I'm  glad  you  had  to  remain  a 
girl." 

One  compliment  pleased  her.     The  other  made  her 
tremble,  though  she  laughed  at  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  FEW  LETTERS 

(From  Bernal  Linford  to  the  Reverend  Allan  Delcher.) 

Dear  Grandfather:  The  college  year  soon  ends;  also  my 
course.  I  think  you  hoped  I  wouldn't  want  again  to  talk 
of  those  matters.  But  it  isn't  so.  I  am  primed  and  wait 
ing,  and  even  you,  old  man,  must  listen  to  reason.  The 
world  of  thought  has  made  many  revolutions  since  you  shut 
yourself  into  that  study  with  your  weekly  church  paper. 
So  be  ready  to  hear  me.  Affectionately, 

BERNAL  LINFORD. 

(From  the  Reverend  Allan  Delcher  to  Bernal  Linford.) 
"Lo,  this  only  have  I  found,  that  God  hath  made  man 
upright,  but  they  have  sought  out  many  inventions."     I  am 
sending  you  a  little  book.  GRANDFATHER. 

(From  Bernal  Linford  to  the  Reverend  Allan  Delcher.) 
Dear  Old  Man:  How  am  I  going  to  thank  you  for  the 
" little  book" — for  Butler's  Analogy?  Or  rather,  how  shall 
I  forgive  you  for  keeping  it  from  me  all  these  years  ?  I  see 
that  you  acquired  it  in  1863 — and  I  never  knew!  I  must 
tell  you  that  I  looked  upon  it  with  suspicion  when  I  un 
wrapped  it — a  suspicion  that  the  title  did  not  allay.  For 
I  recalled  the  last  time  you  gave  me  a  book — the  year  before 
I  came  here.  That  book,  my  friend,  was  "Rasselas,  Prince 
of  Abyssinia."  I  began  it  with  deep  respect  for  you.  I 
finished  with  a  profound  distrust  of  all  Abyssinians  and  an 
overwhelming  grief  for  the  untimely  demise  of  Mrs.  John 
son — for  you  had  told  me  that  the  good  doctor  wrote  this 
book  to  get  money  to  bury  her.  How  the  circle  of  mourners 
for  that  estimable  woman  must  have  widened  as  Rasselas 

134 


A  FEW  LETTERS  135 

made  its  way  out  into  the  world!  Oh,  Grandad,  if  only  they 
had  been  able  to  keep  her  going  some  way  until  he  needn't 
have  done  it!  If  only  she  could  have  been  spared  until  her 
son  got  in  a  little  money  from  the  Dictionary  or  something! 

All  of  which  is  why  I  viewed  with  unfriendly  distrust  your 
latest  gift,  the  Analogy  of  Joseph  Butler,  late  Lord  Bishop 
of  Durham.  But,  honestly,  old  man,  did  you  know  how 
funny  it  was  when  you  sent  it  ?  It's  funnier  than  any  of  the 
books  of  Moses,  without  being  bloody.  What  a  dear,  inno 
cent  old  soul  the  Bishop  is!  How  sincerely  he  believes  he 
is  reasoning  when  he  is  merely  doing  a  roguish  two-step 
down  the  grim  corridor  of  the  eternal  verities — with  a  little 
jig  here  and  there,  and  a  pause  to  flirt  his  frock  airily  in  the 
face  of  some  graven  image  of  Fact.  Ah,  he  is  so  weirdly 
innocent.  Even  when  his  logical  toes  go  blithely  into  the 
air,  his  dear  old  face  is  most  resolutely  solemn,  and  I  believe 
he  is  never  in  the  least  aware  of  his  frivolous  caperings  over 
the  floor  of  induction.  Indeed,  his  unconsciousness  is  what 
makes  him  an  unfailing  delight.  He  even  makes  his  good 
old  short-worded  Saxon  go  in  lilting  waltz-time. 

You  will  never  know,  Grandad,  what  this  book  has  done 
for  me.  I  am  stimulated  in  the  beginning  by  this:  "From 
the  vast  extent  of  God's  dominion  there  must  be  some 
things  beyond  our  comprehension,  and  the  Christian  scheme 
may  be  one  of  them."  And  at  the  last  I  am  soothed  with 
this  heart-rending  pas  seul:  "Concluding  remarks  by  which 
it  is  clearly  shown  that  those  men  who  can  evade  the  force  of 
arguments  so  probable  for  the  truth  of  Christianity  undoubt 
edly  possess  dispositions  to  evil  which  would  cause  them  to 
reject  it,  were  it  based  on  the  most  absolute  demonstration." 
Is  not  that  a  pearl  without  price  in  this  world  of  lawful  con 
clusions  ? 

By  the  way,  Grandad — recalling  the  text  you  quote  in  your 
last — did  you  know  when  you  sent  me  to  this  university  that 
the  philosophy  taught,  in  a  general  way,  is  that  of  Kant;  that 
most  university  scholars  smile  pityingly  at  the  Christian 
thesis?  Did  you  know  that  belief  in  Genesis  had  been 
laughed  away  in  an  institution  like  this  ?  With  no  intention 
of  diverting  you,  but  merely  in  order  to  acquaint  you  with 


136  THE  SEEKER 

the  present  state  of  popular  opinion  on  a  certain  matter,  I 
will  tell  you  of  a  picture  printed  in  a  New  York  daily  of  yes 
terday.  It's  on  the  funny  page.  A  certain  weird  but  funny- 
looking  beast  stands  before  an  equally  funny-looking  Adam, 
in  a  funny  Eden,  with  a  funny  Eve  and  a  funny  Cain  and 
Abel  in  the  background.  The  animal  says,  "Say,  Ad., 
what  did  you  say  my  name  was?  I've  forgotten  it  again." 
Our  first  male  parent  answers  somewhat  testily,  as  one  who 
has  been  vexed  by  like  inquiries:  "Icthyosaurus,  you 
darned  fool!  Can't  you  remember  a  little  thing  like  that  ? " 

In  your  youth  this  would  doubtless  have  been  punished  as 
a  crime.  In  mine  it  is  laughed  at  by  all  classes.  I  tell  you 
this  to  show  you  that  the  Church  to-day  is  in  the  position  of 
upholding  a  belief  which  has  become  meaningless  because 
its  foundation  has  been  laughed  away./  Believing  no  longer 
in  the  god  of  Moses  who  cursed  them,  Christians  yet  assume 
to  believe  in  their  need  of  a  Saviour  to  intercede  between 
them  and  this  exploded  idol  of  terror.  Unhappily,  I  am  so 
made  that  I  cannot  occupy  that  position.  To  me  it  is  not 
honest./ 

Old  man,  do  you  remember  a  certain  saying  of  Squire 
Cumpston?  It  was  this:  "If  you're  going  to  cross  the 
Rubicon,  cross  it!  Don't  wade  out  to  the  middle  and  stand 
there:  you  only  get  hell  from  both  banks!" 

And  so  I  have  crossed;  I  find  the  Squire  was  right  about 
standing  in  the  middle.  Happily,  or  unhappily,  I  am  com 
pelled  to  believe  my  beliefs  with  all  my  head  and  all  my 
heart.  But  I  am  confident  my  reasons  will  satisfy  you  when 
you  hear  them.  You  will  see  these  matters  in  a  new  light. 

Believe  me,  Grandad,  with  all  love  and  respect, 
Affectionately  yours, 

BERNAL  LINFORD. 

(From  the  Reverend  Allan  Delcher  to  Bernal  Linford.) 

My  Boy:  For  one  bitten  with  skepticism  there  is  little 
argument — especially  if  he  be  still  in  youth,  which  is  a  time 
of  raw  and  ready  judgments  and  of  great  spiritual  self- 
sufficiency.  You  wanted  to  go  to  Harvard.  I  wanted  you 
to  go  to  Princeton,  because  of  its  Presbyterianism  and 


A  FEW  LETTERS  137 

because,  too,  of  Harvard's  Unitarianism.  We  compromised 
on  Yale — my  own  alma  mater,  as  it  was  my  father's.  To 
my  belief,  this  was  still,  especially  as  to  its  pulpit,  the  strong 
hold  of  orthodox  Congregationalism.  Was  I  a  weak  old 
man,  compromising  with  Satan  ?  Are  you  to  break  my  heart 
in  these  my  broken  years  ?  For  love  of  me,  as  for  the  love  of 
your  own  soul,  pray.  Leave  the  God  of  Moses  until  your 
soul's  stomach  can  take  the  strong  meat  of  him — for  he  is 
strong  meat — and  come  simply  to  Jesus,  the  meek  and  gen 
tle — the  Redeemer,  who  died  that  his  blood  might  cleanse 
our  sin-stained  souls.  Centre  your  aspirations  upon  Him, 
for  He  is  the  rock  of  our  salvation,  if  we  believe,  or  the  rock 
of  our  wrecking  to  endless  torment  if  we  disbelieve.  Do  not 
deny  our  God  who  is  Jesus,  nor  disown  Jesus  who  is  our 
God,  nor  yet  question  the  inerrance  of  Holy  Writ — yea,  with 
its  everlasting  burnings.  "He  that  believeth  and  is  bap 
tised  shall  be  saved,  but  he  that  believeth  not  shall  be 
damned." 

I  am  sad.     I  have  lived  too  long. 

GRANDFATHER. 

(From  Bernal  Linford  to  the  Reverend  Allan  Delcher.) 

Grandad:  It's  all  so  plain,  you  must  see  it.  I  told  you  I 
had  crossed  to  the  farther  bank.  Here  is  what  one  finds 
there:  Taking  him  as  God,  Jesus  is  ineffectual.  Only  as 
an  obviously  fallible  human  man  does  he  become  beautiful; 
only  as  a  man  is  he  dignified,  worthy,  great — or  even  plausi 
ble. 

The  instinct  of  the  Jews  did  not  mislead  them.  Jesus 
was  too  fine,  too  good,  to  have  come  from  their  tribal  god; 
yet  too  humanly  limited  to  have  come  from  God,  save  as 
we  all  come  from  Him. 

Since  you  insist  that  he  be  considered  as  God,  I  shall  point 
out  those  things  which  make  him  small — as  a  God.  I  would 
rather  consider  him  as  a  man  and  point  out  those  things 
which  make  him  great  to  me — things  which  I  cannot  read 
without  wet  eyes — but  you  will  not  consider  him  as  man,  so 
let  him  be  a  God,  and  let  us  see  what  we  see.  It  is  cus 
tomary  to  speak  of  his  "sacrifice."  What  was  it?  Our 


138  THE  SEEKER 

catechism  says,  "  Christ's  humiliation  consisted  in  his  being 
born,  and  that  in  a  low  condition,  made  under  the  law,  under 
going  the  miseries  of  this  life,  the  wrath  of  God  and  the 
cursed  death  of  the  cross;  in  being  buried  and  continuing 
under  the  power  of  death  for  a  time." 

As  I  write  the  words  I  wonder  that  the  thing  should  ever 
have  seemed  to  any  one  to  be  more  than  a  wretched  piece  of 
God-jugglery,  devoid  of  integrity.  Are  we  to  conceive  God 
then  as  a  being  of  carnal  appetites,  humiliated  by  being 
born  into  the  family  of  an  honest  carpenter,  instead  of  into 
the  family  of  a  King?  This  is  the  somewhat  snobbish 
imputation. 

Let  us  be  done  with  gods  playing  at  being  human,  or  at 
being  half  god  and  half  human.  The  time  has  come  when, 
to  prolong  its  usefulness,  the  Church  must  concede — nay, 
proclaim — the  manhood  of  Jesus;  must  separate  him  from 
that  atrocious  scheme  of  human  sacrifice,  the  logical  exten 
sion  of  a  primitive  Hebrew  mythology — and  take  him  in 
the  only  way  that  he  commands  attention:  As  a  man,  one 
of  the  world's  great  spiritual  teachers.  Insisting  upon  his 
godship  can  only  make  him  preposterous  to  the  modern 
mind.  Jesus,  born  to  a  carpenter's  wife  of  Nazareth, 
declares  himself,  one  day  about  his  thirtieth  year,  to  be  the 
Christ,  the  second  person  in  the  universe,  who  will  come  in  a 
cloud  of  glory  to  judge  the  world.  He  will  save  into  ever 
lasting  life  those  who  believe  him  to  be  of  divine  origin. 
Yet  he  has  been  called  meekl  Surely  never  was  a  more 
arrogant  character  in  history — never  one  less  meek  than 
this  carpenter's  son  who  ranks  himself  second  only  to  God, 
with  power  to  send  into  everlasting  hell  those  who  disbelieve 
him!  He  went  abroad  in  fine  arrogance,  railing  at  lawyers 
and  the  rich,  rebuking,  reproving,  hurling  angry  epithets, 
attacking  what  we  to-day  call  "the  decent  element."  He 
called  the  people  constantly  "Fools,"  "Blind  Leaders  of 
the  Blind,"  "faithless  and  perverse,"  "a  generation  of 
vipers,"  "sinful,"  "evil  and  adulterous,"  "wicked,"  "hypo 
crites,"  "whited  sepulchres." 

As  the  god  he  worshipped  was  a  tribal  god,  so  he  at  first 
believed  himself  to  be  a  tribal  saviour.  He  directed  his 


A  FEW   LETTERS  139 

disciples  thus:  "Go  not  into  the  way  of  the  Gentiles,  and 
into  any  city  of  the  Samaritans  enter  ye  not.  But  go  rather 
to  the  lost  sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel" — (who  emphatically 
rejected  and  slew  him  for  his  pretensions).  To  the  woman 
of  Canaan  whose  daughter  was  vexed  with  a  devil,  he  said: 
"  It  is  not  meet  to  take  the  children's  bread  to  cast  it  to  dogs." 
Imagine  a  God  calling  a  woman  a  dog  because  she  was  not  of 
his  own  tribe! 

And  the  vital  test  of  godhood  he  failed  to  meet:  It  is  his 
own  test,  whereby  he  disproves  his  godship  out  of  his  own 
mouth.  Compare  these  sayings  of  Jesus,  each  typical  of 
him: 

"Resist  not  evil;  but  whosoever  shall  smite  thee  on  thy 
right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other  also."  Yet  he  said  to  his 
Twelve: 

"And  whosoever  shall  not  receive  you  nor  hear  you,  when 
you  depart  thence  shake  off  the  dust  of  your  feet  for  a  tes 
timony  against  them." 

Is  that  the  consistency  of  a  God  or  a  man  ? 

Again:  "Blessed  are  the  merciful,"  but  "Verily  I  say 
unto  you  it  shall  be  more  tolerable  for  Sodom  and  Gomorrah 
in  the  day  of  judgment  than  for  that  city."  Is  this  the 
mercy  which  he  tells  us  is  blessed  ? 

Again:  "And  as  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you  do 
ye  also  to  them  likewise."  Another:  "Woe  unto  thee, 
Chorazin,  woe  unto  thee,  Bethsaida  .  .  .  and  thou, 
Capernaum,  which  are  exalted  unto  heaven,  shall  be  brought 
down  to  hell."  Is  not  this  preaching  the  golden  rule  and 
practicing  something  else,  as  a  man  might  ? 

Again:  "Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that  curse  you, 
do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and  pray  for  them  which 
despitefully  use  you  and  persecute  you. 

"For  if  ye  love  them  which  love  you,  what  reward  have 
ye?  Do  not  even  the  publicans  the  same?  And  if  ye 
salute  your  brethren,  what  do  ye  more  than  others  ?  Do  not 
even  the  publicans  so?"  That,  sir,  is  a  sentiment  that 
proves  the  claim  of  Jesus  to  be  a  teacher  of  morals.  Here 
is  one  which,  placed  beside  it,  proves  him  to  have  been  a 
man. 


140  THE  SEEKER 

"Whosoever  shall  confess  me  be/ore  men,  him  shall  the  son 
of  man  also  confess  before  the  angels  of  God; 

"but  whosoever  shall  deny  me  before  men,  him  will  L  also 
deny  before  my  father,  which  is  in  heaven" 

Is  it  God  speaking — or  man  ?  "Do  not  even  the  publicans 
so?" 

Beside  this  very  human  contradiction,  it  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  hear  him  say  " Resist  not  evil,"  yet  make  a  scourge 
of  cords  to  drive  the  money-changers  from  the  temple  in  a 
fit  of  rage,  human — but  how  ungodlike! 

Believe  me,  the  man  Jesus  is  better  than  the  god  Jesus; 
the  man  is  worth  while,  for  all  his  inconsistencies,  partly  due 
to  his  creed  and  partly  to  his  emotional  nature.  Indeed, 
we  have  not  yet  risen  to  the  splendour  of  his  ideal — even  the 
preachers  will  not  preach  it. 

And  the  miracles  ?  We  need  say  nothing  of  those,  I  think. 
If  a  man  disprove  his  godship  out  of  his  own  mouth,  we  shall 
not  be  convinced  by  a  coin  in  a  fish's  mouth  or  by  his  raising 
Lazarus,  four  days  dead.  So  long  as  he  says,  "I  will  con 
fess  him  that  confesseth  me  and  deny  him  that  denieth  me," 
we  should  know  him  for  one  of  us,  though  he  rose  from  the 
dead  before  our  eyes. 

Then  at  the  last  you  will  say,  "By  their  fruits  ye  shall 
know  them."  Well,  sir,  the  fruits  of  Christianity  are  what 
one  might  expect.  You  will  say  it  stands  for  the  fatherhood 
of  God  and  the  brotherhood  of  man.  That  it  has  always 
done  the  reverse  is  Christianity's  fundamental  defect,  and 
its  chief  absurdity  in  this  day  when  the  popular  unchurchly 
conception  of  God  has  come  to  be  one  of  some  dignity. 

"That  ye  may  know  how  that  the  Lord  doth  put  a  differ 
ence  between  the  Egyptians  and  Israel."  There  is  the  rock 
of  separation  upon  which  the  Church  builded;  the  rock 
upon  which  it  will  presently  split.  The  god  of  the  Jews  set 
a  difference  between  Israel  and  Egypt.  So  much  for  the 
fatherhood  of  God.  The  Son  sets  the  same  difference, 
dividing  the  sheep  from  the  goats,  according  to  the  opinions 
they  form  of  his  claim  to  godship.  So  much  for  the  brother 
hood  of  man.  Christianity  merely  caricatures  both  propo 
sitions.  Nor  do  I  see  how  we  can  attain  any  worthy  ideal 


A  FEW  LETTERS  141 

of  human  brotherhood  while  this  Christianity  prevails:  We 
must  be  sheep  and  goats  among  ourselves,  some  in  heaven, 
some  in  hell,  still  seeking  out  reasons  "Why  the  Saints  in 
Glory  Should  Rejoice  at  the  Sufferings  of  the  Damned." 
We  shall  be  saints  and  sinners,  sated  and  starving.  A  God 
who  separates  them  in  some  future  life  will  have  children 
that  separate  themselves  here  upon  His  own  very  excellent 
authority.  That  is  why  one  brother  of  us  must  work  him 
self  to  death  while  another  idles  himself  to  death — because 
God  has  set  a  difference,  and  his  Son  after  him,  and  the 
Church  after  that.  The  defect  in  social  Christendom 
to-day,  sir,  is  precisely  this  defect  of  the  Christian  faith — 
i'ts  separation,  its  failure  to  teach  what  it  chiefly  boasts  of 
teaching.  We  have,  in  consequence,  a  society  of  thinly 
venet^ed  predatoriness.  And  this,  I  believe,  is  why  our 
society  is  quite  as  unstable  to-day  as  the  Church  itself. 
They  are  both  awakening  to  a  new  truth — which  is  not 
separation. 

The  man  w:ho  is  proud  of  our  Christian  civilisation  has 
ideals     susceptible     of     immense     elevation.     Christianity 
has  more  souls  in  iis'  hell  and  fewer  in  its  heaven  than  any 
other  religion  whatsoever.     Naturally,  Christian  society  is 
one  of  extremes  and  of  gross0,  injustice — of  oppress^  an(j 
indifference  to  suffering.     And  so  it  will  be  until  this  mate 
rialism  of  separation  is  repudiated:    until  we  turn  seriously 
to  the  belief  that  men  are  truly  brothers,  not  one  of  whom 
can  be  long  happy  while  any  other  suffers. 

Come,  Grandad,  let  us  give  up  this  God  of  Moses.  Doubt 
less  he  was  good  enough  for  the  early  Jews,  but  man  has 
always  had  to  make  God  in  his  own  image,  and  you  and  I 
need  a  better  one,  for  we  both  surpass  this  one  in  all  spiritual 
values — in  love,  in  truth,  in  justice,  in  common  decency — as 
much  as  Jesus  surpassed  the  unrepentant  thief  at  his  side. 
Remember  that  an  honest,  fearless  search  for  truth  has  led 
to  all  the  progress  we  can  measure  over  the  brutes.  Why 
must  it  lose  the  soul?  BERNAL. 

(From  the  Reverend  Allan  Delcher  to  Bernal  Lmford.) 

My  boy,  I  shall  not  believe  you  are  sane  until  I  have  seen 

you  face  to  face.     I  cannot  believe  you  have  fallen  a  victim 


142  THE  SEEKER 

to  Universal! sm,  which  is  like  the  vale  of  Siddim,  full  of 
slime-pits.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  my  mind  goes  haltingly, 
yet  that  is  what  I  seem  to  glean  from  your  rambling  screed. 
Come  when  you  are  through,  for  I  must  see  you  once  more. 

"For  God  sent  not  His  Son  into  the  world  to  condemn  the 
world,  but  that  the  world  through  him  might  be  saved.  He 
that  believeth  on  him  is  not  condemned ;  but  he  that  believeth 
not  is  condemned  already  because  he  hath  not  believed  in 
the  name  of  the  only  begotten  son  of  God." 

Lastly — doubt  in  infinite  things  is  often  wise,  but  doubt 
of  God  must  be  blasphemy,  else  he  would  not  be  God,  the 
all-perfect. 

I  pray  it  may  be  your  mind  is  still  sick — and  recall  to  you 
these  words  of  one  I  will  not  now  name  to  you:  "Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

ALLAN  DELCJJER. 


CHAPTER  V 
"Is  THE  HAND  OF  THE  LORD  WAXED  SHORT?" 

A  DISMAYED  old  man,  eagerly  trying  to  feel  incredu 
lous,  awaited  the  home-coming  of  his  grandsons  at  the 
beginning  of  that  vacation. 

Was  the  hand  of  the  Lord  waxed  short,  that  so  utter 
a  blasphemer — unless,  indeed,  he  were  possessed  of  a 
devil — could  walk  in  the  eye  of  Jehovah,  and  no  breach 
be  made  upon  him  ?  Even  was  the  world  itself  so  lax 
in  these  days  that  one  speaking  thus  could  go  free  ?  If 
so,  then  how  could  God  longer  refrain  from  drowning 
the  world  again?  The  human  baseness  of  the  blas 
pheming  one  and  the  divine  toleration  that  permitted 
it  were  alike  incredible. 

A  score  of  times  the  old  man  nerved  himself  to  laugh 
away  his  fears.  It  could  not  be.  The  young  mind  was 
still  disordered. 

On  the  night  of  the  home-coming  he  greeted  the 
youth  quite  as  if  all  were  serene  within  him,  determined 
to  be  in  no  haste  and  to  approach  the  thing  lightly  on 
the  morrow — in  the  fond  hope  that  a  mere  breath  of 
authority  might  blow  it  away. 

And  when,  the  next  morning,  they  both  drifted  to  the 
study,  the  old  man  called  up  the  smile  that  made  his 
wrinkles  sunny,  and  said  in  light  tones,  above  the  beat 
ing  of  an  anxious  heart: 

"So  it's  your  theory,  boy,  that  we  must  all  be  taken 
143 


144  THE  SEEKER 

down  with  typhoid  before  we  can  be  really  wise  in  mat 
ters  of  faith  ?" 

But  the  youth  answered,  quite  earnestly: 

"  Yes,  sir;  I  really  believe  nothing  less  than  that  would 
clear  most  minds — especially  old  ones.  You  see,  the 
brain  is  a  muscle  and  thought  is  its  physical  exercise. 
It  learns  certain  thoughts — to  go  through  certain  exer 
cises.  These  become  a  habit,  and  in  time  the  muscle 
becomes  stiff  and  incapable  of  learning  any  new  move 
ments — also  incapable  of  leaving  off  the  old.  The 
religion  of  an  old  person  is  merely  so  much  reflex 
nervous  action.  It  is  beyond  the  reach  of  reason.  The 
individual's  mind  can  affect  it  as  little  as  it  can  teach 
the  other  muscles  of  his  body  new  suppleness." 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  restrained  nervousness  that 
was  not  reassuring.  But  the  old  man  would  not  yet 
be  rebuffed  from  his  manner  of  lightness. 

"Then,  wanting  an  epidemic  of  typhoid,  we  of  the 
older  generation  must  die  in  error." 

"Yes,  sir — I  doubt  even  the  efficacy  of  typhoid  in 
most  cases;  it's  as  difficult  for  an  old  person  to  change 
a  habit  of  thought  as  to  take  the  wrinkles  from  his  face. 
That  is  why  what  we  very  grandly  call  '  fighting  for  the 
truth'  or  'fighting  for  the  Lord'  is  merely  fighting  for 
our  own  little  notions;  they  have  become  so  vital  to  us 
and  we  call  them  '  truth."3 

The  youth  stopped,  with  a  palpable  air  of  defiance, 
before  which  the  old  man's  assumption  of  ease  and 
lightness  was  at  last  beaten  down.  He  had  been  stand 
ing  erect  by  the  table,  still  with  the  smile  toning  his 
haggardness.  Now  the  smile  died;  the  whole  man 
sickened,  lost  life  visibly,  as  if  a  dozen  years  of  normal 
aging  were  condensed  into  the  dozen  seconds. 


WAXES  THE  LORD'S  HAND  SHORT?    145 

He  let  himself  go  into  the  big  chair,  almost  as  if 
falling,  his  head  bowed,  his  eyes  dulled  to  a  look  of 
absence,  his  arms  falling  weakly  over  the  chair's  sides. 
A  sigh  that  was  almost  a  groan  seemed  to  tell  of  pain 
both  in  body  and  mind. 

Bernal  stood  awkwardly  regarding  him,  then  his 
face  lighted  with  a  sudden  pity. 

"But  I  thought  you  could  understand,  sir;  I  thought 
you  were  different;  you  have  been  like  a  chum  to  me. 
When  I  spoke  of  old  persons  it  never  occurred  to  me 
that  you  could  fall  into  that  class!  I  never  knew  you 
to  be  unjust,  or  unkind,  or — narrow — perhaps  I  should 
say,  unsympathetic." 

The  other  gave  no  sign  of  hearing. 

"My  body  was  breaking  so  fast — and  you  break  my 
heart!" 

"There  you  are,  sir,"  began  the  youth,  a  little  excit 
edly.  "Your  heart  is  breaking  not  because  I'm  not 
good,  but  because  I  form  a  different  opinion  from  yours 
of  a  man  rising  from  the  dead,  after  he  has  been 
crucified  to  appease  the  anger  of  his  father." 

"God  help  me!  I'm  so  human.  I  can't  feel  toward 
you  as  I  should.  Boy,  I  wont  believe  you  are  sane." 
He  looked  up  in  a  sudden  passion  of  hope.  "I  won't 
believe  Christ  died  in  vain  for  my  girl's  little  boy. 
Bernal,  boy,  you  are  still  sick  of  that  fever!" 

The  other  smiled,  his  youthful  scorn  for  the  moment 
overcoming  his  deeper  feeling  for  his  listener. 

"Then  I  must  talk  more.  Now,  sir,  for  God's  sake 
let  us  have  the  plain  truth  of  the  crucifixion.  Where 
was  the  sacrifice?  Can  you  not  picture  the  mob  that 
would  fight  for  the  honour  of  crucifixion  to-morrow, 
if  it  were  known  that  the  one  chosen  would  sit  at  the 


146  THE  SEEKER 

right  hand  of  God  and  judge  all  the  world  ?  I  say 
there  was  no  sacrifice,  even  if  Christian  dogma  be  literal 
truth.  Why,  sir,  I  could  go  into  the  street  and  find  ten 
men  in  ten  minutes  who  would  be  crucified  a  hundred 
times  to  save  the  souls  of  us  from  hell — not  if  they  were 
to  be  rewarded  with  a  seat  on  the  throne  of  God  where 
they  could  send  into  hell  those  who  did  not  believe  in 
them — but  for  no  reward  whatever — out  of  a  sheer  love 
for  humanity.  Don't  you  see,  sir,  that  we  have  mag 
nified  that  crucifixion  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  plainest 
truth  of  our  lives  ?  You  know  I  would  die  on  a  cross 
to-day,  not  to  redeem  the  world,  but  to  redeem  one  poor 
soul — your  own.  If  you  deny  that,  at  least  you  won't 
dare  deny  that  you  would  go  on  the  cross  to  redeem  my 
soul  from  hell — the  soul  of  one  man — and  do  you  think 
you  would  demand  a  reward  for  doing  it,  beyond  know 
ing  that  you  had  ransomed  me  from  torment?  Would 
it  be  necessary  to  your  happiness  that  you  also  have 
the  power  to  send  into  hell  all  those  who  were  not  able 
to  believe  you  had  actually  died  for  me  ? 

"One  moment  more,  sir —  The  thin,  brown, 

old  hand  had  been  raised  in  trembling  appeal,  while 
the  lips  moved  without  sound. 

'  'You  see  every  day  in  the  papers  how  men  die  for 
other  men,  for  one  man,  for  two,  a  dozen!  Why,  sir, 
you  know  you  would  die  to  save  the  lives  of  five  little 
children — their  bare  carnal  lives,  mind  you,  to  say  nothing 
of  their  immortal  souls.  I  believe  I'd  die  myself  to 
save  two  thousand — I  know  I  would  to  save  three — if 
their  faces  were  clean  and  they  looked  funny  enough 
and  helpless.  Here,  in  this  morning's  paper,  a  negro 
labourer,  going  home  from  his  work  in  New  York 
yesterday,  pushed  into  safety  one  of  those  babies  that 


WAXES  THE  LORD'S  HAND  SHORT?    147 

are  always  crawling  around  on  railroad  tracks.  He 
had  time  to  see  that  he  could  get  the  baby  off  but  not 
himself,  and  then  he  went  ahead.  Doubtless  it  was  a 
very  common  baby,  and  certainly  he  was  a  very  com 
mon  man.  Why,  I  could  go  down  to  Sing  Sing  to 
morrow,  and  I'll  stake  my  own  soul  that  in  the  whole 
cagefu1  of  criminals  there  isn't  one  who  would  not 
eagerly  submit  to  crucifixion  if  he  believed  that  he 
would  thereby  ransom  the  race  from  hell.  And  he 
wouldn't  want  the  power  to  damn  the  unbelievers, 
either.  He  would  insist  upon  saving  them  with  the 
others." 

"Oh,  God,  forgive  this  insane  passion  in  my  boy!" 

"It  was  passion,  sir "  he  spoke  with  a  sudden 

relenting — "but  try  to  remember  that  I've  sought  the 
truth  honestly." 

"You  degrade  the  Saviour." 

"No;  I  only  raise  man  out  of  the  muck  of  Christian 
belief  about  him.  If  common  men  all  might  live  lives 
of  greater  sacrifice  than  Jesus  did,  without  any  pre 
tensions  to  the  supernatural,  it  only  means  that  we 
need  a  new  embodiment  for  our  ideals.  If  we  find  it 
in  man — in  God's  creature — so  much  the  better  for  man 
and  so  much  the  more  glory  to  God,  who  has  not  then 
bungled  so  wretchedly  as  Christianity  teaches." 

"God  forgive  you  this  tirade — I  know  it  is  the  sick 
ness." 

"I  shall  try  to  speak  calmly,  sir — but  how  much 
longer  can  an  educated  clergy  keep  a  straight  face  to 
speak  of  this  wretchedly  impotent  God?  Christians 
of  a  truth  have  had  to  bind  their  sense  of  humour  as 
the  Chinese  bound  their  women's  feet.  But  the  laugh 
is  gathering  even  now.  Your  religion  is  like  a  tree 


148  THE  SEEKER 

that  has  lain  long  dead  in  the  forest — firm  wood  to  the 
eye  but  dust  to  the  first  blow.  And  this  is  how  it  will 
go — from  a  laugh — not  through  the  solemn  absurdities 
of  the  so-called  higher  criticism,  the  discussing  of  this 
or  that  miracle,  the  tracing  of  this  or  that  myth  of  fall 
or  deluge  or  immaculate  conception  or  trinity  to  its 
pagan  sources;  not  that  way,  when  before  the  inquiring 
mind  rises  the  sheer  materialism  of  the  Christian  dogma, 
bristling  with  absurdities — its  vain  bungling  God  of  one 
tribe  who  crowns  his  career  of  impotencies — in  all  but 
the  art  of  slaughter — by  instituting  the  sacrifice  of  a  Son 
begotten  of  a  human  mother,  to  appease  his  wrath 
toward  his  own  creatures;  a  God  who  even  by  this 
pitiful  device  can  save  but  a  few  of  us.  Was  ever  god 
so  powerless  ?  Do  you  think  we  who  grow  up  now  do 
not  detect  it?  Is  it  not  time  to  demand  a  God  of 
virtue,  of  integrity,  of  ethical  dignity — a  religion  whose 
test  shall  be  moral,  and  not  the  opinion  one  forms  of 
certain  alleged  material  phenomena?" 

When  he  had  first  spoken  the  old  man  cowered  low 
and  lower  in  his  chair,  with  little  moans  of  protest  at 
intervals,  perhaps  a  quick,  almost  gasping,  "God 
forgive  him!"  or  a  "Lord  have  mercy!"  But  as  the 
talk  went  on  he  became  slowly  quieter,  his  face  grew 
firmer,  he  sat  up  in  his  chair,  and  at  the  last  he  came  to 
bend  upon  the  speaker  a  look  that  made  him  falter 
confusedly  and  stop. 

"I  can  say  no  more,  sir;  I  should  not  have  said  so 
much.  Oh,  Grandad,  I  wouldn't  have  hurt  you  for 
all  the  world,  yet  I  had  to  let  you  know  why  I  could 
not  do  what  you  had  planned — and  I  was  fool  enough 
to  think  I  could  justify  myself  to  you!" 

The  old  eyes  still  blazed  upon  him  with  a  look 
of  sorrow  and  of  horror  that  was  yet,  first  of  all, 


WAXES  THE  LORD'S  HAND  SHORT?    149 

a  look  of  power;  the  look  of  one  who  had  mastered 
himself  to  speak  calmly  while  enduring  uttermost 
pain. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  spoken.  You  were  honest  to 
do  so.  It  was  my  error  not  to  be  convinced  at  first, 
and  thus  save  myself  a  shock  I  could  ill  bear.  But 
you  have  been  sick,  and  I  felt  that  I  should  not  believe 
without  seeing  you.  I  had  built  so  much — so  many 
years — on  your  preaching  the  gospel  of — of  my  Saviour. 
This  hope  has  been  all  my  life  these  last  years — now  it 
is  gone.  But  I  have  no  right  to  complain.  You  are 
free;  I  have  no  claim  upon  you;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to 
provide  for  you — to  educate  you  further  for  any  pro 
fession  you  may  have  chosen — to  start  you  in  any 
business — away  from  here — from  this  house " 

The  young  man  flushed — wincing  under  this,  but 
answered : 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  could  hardly  take  anything 
further.  I  don't  know  what  I  want  to  do,  what  I  can 
do — I'm  at  sea  now.  But  I  will  go.  I'm  sure  only 
that  I  want  to  get  out — away — I  will  take  a  small  sum 
to  go  with — I  know  you  would  be  hurt  more  if  I  didn't; 
enough  to  get  me  away — far  enough  away." 

He  went  out,  his  head  bowed  under  the  old  man's 
stern  gaze.  But  when  the  latter  had  stepped  to  the 
door  and  locked  it,  his  fortitude  was  gone.  Helplessly 
he  fell  upon  his  knees  before  the  big  chair — praying  out 
his  grief  in  hard,  dry  sobs  that  choked  and  shook  his 
worn  body. 

When  Clytie  knocked  at  the  door  an  hour  later,  he 
was  dry-eyed  and  apparently  serene,  but  busy  with 
papers  at  his  table. 

"Is  it  something  bad  about  Bernal,  Mr.  Delcher,'1 
she  asked,  "that,  he's  going  awajy  so  queer  and  sudden  ?" 


150  THE  SEEKER 

"  You  pray  for  him,  too,  Clytie — you  love  him — but 
it's  nothing  to  talk  of/* 

But  the  alarm  of  Clytemnestra  was  not  to  be  put 
down  by  this. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Delcher —  "  a  look  of  horror  grew  big 
in  her  eyes — "You  don't  mean  to  say  he's  gone  and 
joined  the  Universalists  ?  " 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"And  he  ain't  a  Unitarian?" 

"No,  Clytie;  but  our  boy  has  been  to  college  and  it 
has  left  him  rather  un — unconforming  in  some  little 
matters — some  details — doubtless  his  doctrine  is  sound 
at  core." 

"But  I  supposed  he'd  learn  everything  off  at  that 
college,  only  I  know  he  never  got  fed  half  enough. 
What  with  all  its  studies  and  football  and  clubs  and 
things  I  thought  it  was  as  good  as  a  liberal  education." 

"Too  liberal,  sometimes!  Pray  for  Bernal — and  we 
won't  talk  about  it  again,  Clytie,  if  you  please." 

Presently  came  Allan,  who  had  heard  the  news. 

"Bernal  tells  me  he  will  not  enter  the  ministry,  sir; 
that  he  is  going  away." 

"We  have  decided  that  is  best." 

"  You  know,  sir,  I  have  suspected  for  some  time  that 
Bernal  was  not  as  sound  doctrinally  as  you  could  wish. 
His  mind,  if  I  may  say  it,  is  a  peculiarly  literal  one. 
He  seems  to  lack  a  certain  spiritual  comprehensive 
ness — an  enveloping  intuition,  so  to  say,  of  the  spiritual 
value  in  a  material  fact.  During  that  unhappy  agita 
tion  for  the  revision  of  our  creed,  I  have  heard  him, 
touching  the  future  state  of  unbaptised  infants,  utter 
sentiments  of  a  heterodoxy  that  was  positively  effem 
inate  in  its  sentimentality — sentiments  which  I  shall 


WAXES  THE  LORD'S  HAND  SHORT?    151 

not  pain  you  by  repeating.  He  has  often  referred, 
moreover,  with  the  same  disordered  sentimentality,  to 
the  sad  fate  of  our  father — about  whose  present  estate 
no  churchman  can  have  any  doubt.  And  then  about 
our  belief  that  even  good  works  are  an  abomination 
before  God  if  performed  by  the  unregenerate,  the 
things  I  have  heard  him " 

"Yes — yes — let  us  not  talk  of  it  further.  Did  you 
wish  to  see  me  especially,  Allan?" 

"Well,  yes,  sir,  I  had  wished  to,  and  perhaps  now  is 
the  best  moment.  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  sir,  how  you 
would  regard  my  becoming  an  Episcopalian.  I  am 
really  persuaded  that  its  form  of  worship,  translating 
as  it  does  so  much  of  the  spiritual  verity  of  life  into 
visible  symbols,  is  a  form  better  calculated  than  the 
Presbyterian  to  appeal  to  the  great  throbbing  heart  of 
humanity.  I  hope  I  may  even  say,  without  offense,  sir, 
that  it  affords  a  wider  scope,  a  broader  sweep,  a  more 
stimulating  field  of  endeavour,  to  one  who  may  have  a 
capacity  for  the  life  of  larger  aspects.  In  short,  sir,  I 
believe  there  is  a  great  future  for  me  in  that  church." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  there  was,"  answered  the 
old  man,  who  had  studied  his  face  closely  during  the 
speech.  Yet  he  spoke  with  an  extreme  dryness  of  tone 
that  made  the  other  look  quickly  up. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  he  continued,  after  a  medi 
tative  pause — "I  believe  you  are  better  calculated  for 
that  church  than  for  mine.  Obey  your  call." 


CHAPTER  VI 
IN  THE  FOLLY  OF  His  YOUTH 

AT  early  twilight  Bernal,  sore  at  heart  for  the  pain 
he  had  been  obliged  to  cause  the  old  man,  went  to  the 
study-door  for  a  last  word  with  him. 

"I  believe  there  is  no  one  above  whose  forgiveness  I 
need,  sir — but  I  shall  always  be  grieved  if  I  can't  have 
yours.  I  do  need  that." 

The  old  man  had  stood  by  the  open  door  as  if  mean 
ing  to  cut  short  the  interview. 

"You  have  it.  I  forgive  you  any  hurt  you  have  done 
me;  it  was  due  quite  as  much  to  my  limitations  as  to 
yours.  For  that  other  forgiveness,  which  you  will  one 
day  know  is  more  than  mine — I — I  shall  always  pray 
for  that." 

He  stopped,  and  the  other  waited  awkwardly,  his 
heart  rushing  out  in  ineffectual  flood  against  the  old 
man's  barrier  of  stern  restraint.  For  a  moment  he  made 
folds  in  his  soft  hat  with  a  fastidious  precision.  Ffnally 
he  nerved  himself  to  say  calmly: 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  for  all  you  have  done — all  you 
have  ever  done  for  me  and  for  Allan — and,  good-bye!" 

"Good-bye!" 

Though  there  was  no  hint  of  unkindness  in  the  old 
man's  voice,  something  formal  in  his  manner  had 
restrained  the  other  from  offering  his  hand.  Still  loath 
to  go  without  it,  he  said  again  more  warmly : 

152 


IN  THE  FOLLY   OF  HIS  YOUTH      153 

"Good-bye,  sir!" 

"Good-bye!" 

This  time  he  turned  and  went  slowly  down  the  dim 
hall,  still  making  the  careful  folds  in  his  hat,  as  if  he 
might  presently  recall  something  that  would  take  him 
back.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  stopped  quickly  to 
listen,  believing  he  had  heard  a  call  from  above;  but 
nothing  came  and  he  went  out.  Still  in  the  door  up 
stairs  was  the  old  man — stern  of  face,  save  that  far 
back  in  his  eyes  a  kind  spirit  seemed  to  strive  ineffectu- 
ally. 

Across  the  lawn  from  her  hammock  Nancy  called  to 
Bernal.  He  went  slowly  toward  her,  still  suffering 
from  the  old  man's  coldness — and  for  the  hurts  he  had 
unwittingly  put  upon  him. 

The  girl,  as  he  went  forward,  stood  to  greet  him, 
her  gown,  sleeveless,  neckless,  taking  the  bluish  tinge 
that  early  twilight  gives  to  snow,  a  tinge  that  deepened  to 
dusk  about  her  eyes  and  in  her  hair.  She  gave  him  her 
hand  and  at  once  he  felt  a  balm  poured  into  his  tortured 
heart.  After  all,  men  were  born  to  hurt  and  be  hurt. 

He  sat  in  the  rustic  chair  opposite  the  hammock, 
looking  into  Nancy's  black-lashed  eyes  of  the  Irish  gray, 
noting  that  from  nineteen  to  twenty  her  neck  had 
broadened  at  the  base  the  least  one  might  discern,  that 
her  face  was  less  full  yet  richer  in  suggestion — her  face 
of  the  odds  and  ends  when  she  did  not  smile.  At  this 
moment  she  was  not  only  unsmiling,  but  excited. 

"Oh,  Bernal,  what  is  it?  Tell  me  quick.  Allan 
was  so  vague — though  he  said  he'd  always  stand  by 
you,  no  matter  what  you  did.  What  have  you  done, 
Bernal?  Is  it  a  college  scrape?" 

"Oh,  that's  only  Allan's  big-hearted  way  of  talkingl 


154  THE  SEEKER 

He's  so  generous  and  loyal  I  think  he's  often  been  dis 
appointed  that  I  didn't  do  something,  so  he  could  stand 
by  me.  No — no  scrapes,  Nance,  honour  bright!" 

"But  you're  leaving ' 

"Well,  in  a  way  I  have  done  something.  I've  found 
I  couldn't  be  a  minister  as  Grandad  had  set  his  heart  on 
my  being " 

"But  if  you  haven't  done  anything  wicked,  why 
not?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  a  believer." 

"In  what?" 

"In  anything,  I  think — except,  well,  in  you  and 
Grandad  and — and  Allan  and  Clyde— yes,  and  in  my 
self,  Nance.  That's  a  big  point.  I  believe  in  myself." 

"And  you're  going  because  you  don't  believe  in  other 
things?" 

"Yes,  or  because  I  believe  too  much — just  as  you 
like  to  put  it.  I  demanded  a  better  God  of  Grandad, 
Nance — one  that  didn't  create  hell  and  men  like  me  to 
fill  it  just  for  the  sake  of  scaring  a  few  timid  mortals 
into  heaven." 

"You  know  Aunt  Bell  is  an  unbeliever.  She  says  no 
one  with  an  open  mind  can  live  twenty  years  in  Boston 
without  being  vastly  broadened — 'broadening  into  the 
higher  unbelief,'  she  calls  it.  She  says  she  has  passed 
through  nearly  every  stage  of  unbelief  there  is,  but  that 
she  feels  the  Lord  is  going  to  bring  her  back  at  last  to 
rest  in  the  shadow  of  the  Cross." 

As  Aunt  Bell  could  be  heard  creaking  heavily  in  a 
willow  rocker  on  the  piazza  near-by,  the  young  man 
suppressed  a  comment  that  arose  within  him. 

"Only,  unbelievers  are  apt  to  be  fatiguing"  the  girl 
continued,  in  a  lower  tone.  "You  know  Aunt  Bell's 


IN  THE  FOLLY  OF  HIS  YOUTH      155 

husband,  Uncle  Chester — the  meekest,  dearest  little 
man  in  the  world,  he  was — well,  once  he  disappeared 
and  wasn't  heard  of  again  for  over  four  years — except 
that  they  knew  his  bank  account  was  drawn  on  from 
time  to  time.  Then,  at  last,  his  brother  found  him, 
living  quietly  under  an  assumed  name  in  a  little  town 
outside  of  Boston — pretending  that  he  hadn't  a  relative 
in  the  world.  He  told  his  brother  he  was  just  begin 
ning  to  feel  rested.  Aunt  Bell  said  he  was  demented. 
While  he  was  away  she'd  been  all  through  psychometry, 
the  planchette,  clairvoyance,  palmistry,  astrology,  and 
Unitarianism.  What  are  you,  Bernal  ?  " 
"Nothing,  Nance — that's  the  trouble." 
"But  where  are  you  going,  and  what  for?" 
"I  don't  know  either  answer — but  I  can't  stay  here, 
because  I'm  blasphemous — it  seems — and  I  don't 
want  to  stay,  even  if  I  weren't  sent.  I  want  to  be  out — 
away.  I  feel  as  if  I  must  be  looking  for  something  I 
haven't  found.  I  suspect  it's  a  fourth  dimension  to 
religion.  They  have  three — even  breadth — but  they 
haven't  found  faith  yet — a  faith  that  doesn't  demand 
arbitrary  signs,  parlour-magic,  and  bloody,  weird  tales 
in  a  book  that  becomes  their  idol." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  long  in  silence,  swaying  a 
little  in  the  hammock,  a  bare  elbow  in  one  hand,  her 
meditative  chin  in  the  other,  the  curtains  of  her  eyes 
half-drawn,  as  if  to  let  him  in  a  little  at  a  time  before 
her  wonder.  Then,  at  last : 

"Why,  you're  another  Adam — being  sent  out  of  the 
garden  for  your  sin.  Now  tell  me — honest — was  the 
sin  worth  it  ?  I've  often  wondered."  She  gave  an  eager 
little  laugh. 

"Why,  Nance,  it's  worth  so  much  that  you  want  to 


156  THE  SEEKER 

go  of  your  own  accord.  Do  you  suppose  Adam  could 
have  stayed  in  that  fat,  lazy,  silly  garden  after  he 
became  alive — with  no  work,  no  knowledge,  no  adven 
ture,  no  chance  to  do  wrong?  As  for  earning  his 
bread — the  only  plausible  hell  I've  ever  been  able  to 
picture  is  one  where  there  was  nothing  to  do — no  work, 
no  puzzling,  no  chances  to  take,  no  necessity  of  thinking. 
Now,  isn't  that  an  ideal  hell  ?  And  is  it  my  fault  if  it 
happens  to  be  a  description  of  what  Christians  look 
forward  to  as  heaven  ?  I  tell  you,  Adam  would  have 
gone  out  of  that  garden  from  sheer  boredom  after  a  few 
days.  The  setting  of  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword 
to  guard  the  gate  shows  that  God  still  failed  to  under 
stand  the  wonderful  creature  he  had  made." 

She  smiled,  meditative,  wondering. 

"I  dare  say,  for  my  part,  I'd  have  eaten  that  apple 
if  the  serpent  had  been  at  all  persuasive.  Bcrnal,  I 
wonder — and  wonder — and  wonder — I'm  never  done. 
And  Aunt  Bell  says  I'll  never  be  a  sweet  and  wholesome 
and  stimulating  companion  to  my  husband,  if  I  don't 
stop  being  so  vague  and  fantastic." 

"What  does  she  call  being  vague  and  fantastic?" 

"Not  wanting  any  husband." 

"Oh!" 

"Bernal,  it's  like  the  time  that  you  ran  off  when  you 
were  a  wee  thing — to  be  bad." 

"And  you  cried  because  I  wouldn't  take  you  with 
me." 

"I  can  feel  the  woe  of  it  yet." 

"You're  dry-eyed  now,  Nance." 

"Yes — and  the  pink  parasol  and  the  buff  shoes  I 
meant  to  take  with  me  are  also  things  of  the  past. 
Mercy!  The  idea  of  going  off  with  an  unbeliever  to 


IN  THE  FOLLY  OF  HIS  YOUTH      157 

be  Jbad  and — everything!  'The  happy  couple  are 
said  k>  look  forward  to  a  life  of  joyous  wickedness, 
several  interesting  crimes  having  been  planned  for  the 
coming  season.  For  their  honeymoon  infamy  they 
will  perpetrate  a  series  of  bank-robberies  along  the 
Maine  coast/  There — how  would  that  sound?" 

"  You're  right,  Nance — I  wouldn't  take  you  this 
time  either,  even  if  you  cried.  And  your  little  speech 
is  funny  and  all  that — but  Nance,  I  believe,  these 
last  years,  we've  both  thought  of  things  now  and  then — 
things,  you  know — things  to  think  of  and  not  talk  of — 

and  see  here The  man  was  driven  out  of  the 

garden — but  not  the  woman.  She  isn't  mentioned. 
She  could  stay  there— 

"Until  she  got  tired  of  it  herself?" 

"Until  the  man  came  back  for  her." 

He  thought  her  face  was  glowing  duskily  in  the 
twilight. 

"I  wonder — wonder  about  so  many  things,"  she 
said  softly. 

"I  believe  you're  a  sleeping  rebel  yourself,  Nance. 
If  ever  you  do  eat  from  that  tree,  there'll  be  no  holding 
you.  You  won't  wait  to  be  driven  forth!" 

"And  you  are  a  wicked  young  man — that  kind 
never  comes  back  in  the  stories." 

"That  may  be  no  jest,  Nance.  I  should  surely  be 
wicked,  if  I  thought  it  brings  the  happiness  it's  said  to. 
Under  this  big  sky  I  am  free  from  any  moral  law  that 
doesn't  come  from  right  here  inside  me.  Can  you 
realise  that?  Do  I  seem  bad  for  saying  it?  What 
they  call  the  laws  of  God  are  nothing.  I  suspect  them 
all,  and  I'll  make  every  one  of  them  find  it?  uthority 
in  me  before  I  obey  it." 


158  THE  SEEKER 

"It  sounds — well — unpromising,  Bernal." 

"I  told  you  it  was  serious,  Nance.  1  see  but  one 
law  clearly — I  am  bound  to  want  happiness.  Every 
man  is  bound  always  to  want  happiness,  Nance.  No 
man  can  possibly  want  anything  else.  That's  the  only 
thing  under  heaven  I'm  sure  of  at  this  moment — the 
one  universal  law  under  which  we  all  make  our  mis 
takes — good  people  and  bad  alike?" 

"But,  Bernal,  you  wouldn't  be  bad — not  really  bad  ?" 

"Well,  Nance,  I've  a  vague,  loose  sort  of  notion  that 
one  isn't  really  compelled  to  be  bad  in  order  to  be 
happy  right  here  on  earth.  I  know  the  Church  rather 
intimates  this,  but  I  suspect  that  vice  is  not  the  delicious 
thing  the  Church  implies  it  to  be." 

"You  make  me  afraid,  Bernal— 

"But  if  I  do  come  back,  Nance,  having  toiled?" 
and  you  make  me  wonder." 

"I  think  that's  all  either  of  us  can  do,  Nance,  and  1 
must  go.  I  have  to  say  good-bye  to  Clytie  yet.  The 
poor  soul  is  convinced  that  I  have  become  a  Unitarian 
and  that  there's  a  conspiracy  to  keep  the  horrible  truth 
from  her.  She  says  grandad  evaded  her  questions 
about  it.  She  doesn't  dream  there  are  depths  below 
Unitarianism.  I  must  try  to  convince  her  that  I'm  not 
that  bad — that  I  may  have  a  weak  head  and  a  defective 
heart,  but  not  that.  Nance — girl!" 

He  sat  forward  in  the  chair,  reaching  toward  her. 
She  turned  her  face  away,  but  their  hands  trembled 
toward  each  other,  faltering  fearfully,  tremulously, 
into  a  clasp  that  became  at  once  firm  and  knowing  when 
it  felt  itself — as  if  it  opened  their  blind  eyes  to  a  world 
of  life  and  light  without  end,  a  world  in  which  they  two 
were  the  first  to  live. 


IN  THE   FOLLY   OF   HIS   YOUTH       159 

Lingeringly,  with  slow,  regretting  fingers,  the  hands 
fell  apart,  to  tighten  eagerly  again  into  the  elasp  that 
made  them  one  flesh. 

When  at  last  they  were  put  asunder  both  arose.  The 
girl  patted  from  her  skirts  the  hammock's  little  disar 
ranging  touches,  while  the  youth  again  made  the  careful 
folds  in  his  hat.  Then  they  shook  hands  very  stiffly, 
and  wrent  opposite  ways  out  of  a  formal  garden  of 
farewell;  the  youth  to  sate  that  beautiful,  crude  young 
lust  for  living — too  fierce  to  be  tamed  save  by  its  own 
failures,  hearing  only  the  sagas  of  action,  of  form  and 
colour  and  sound  made  one  by  heat — the  song  Nature 
sings  unendingly — but  heard  only  by  young  ears. 

The  girl  went  back  to  the  Crealock  piazza  to  hear  of 
one  better  set  in  the  grace  of  faith. 

"That  elder  young  Linford,"  began  Aunt  Bell, 
ceasing  to  rock,  "has  a  future.  You  know  I  talked 
to  him  about  the  Episcopal  Church,  strongly  advising 
him  to  enter  it.  For  all  my  broad  views" — Aunt  Bell 
sighed  here — "I  really  and  truly  believe,  child,  that  no 
one  not  an  Episcopalian  is  ever  thoroughly  at  ease 
in  this  world." 

Aunt  Bell  was  beautifully,  girlishly  plump,  with  a 
sophisticated  air  of  smartness — of  coquetry,  indeed — as 
to  her  exquisitely  small  hands  and  feet;  and  though  a 
certain  suggestion  of  melancholy  in  her  tone  harmonised 
with  the  carefully  dressed  gray  hair  and  with  her 
apparent  years,  she  nevertheless  breathed  airs  of  per 
fect  comfort. 

"Of  course  this  young  chap  could  see  at  once,"  she 
went  on,  "what  immensely  better  form  it  is  than  Cal 
vinism.  Dear  me!  Imagine  one  being  a  Presby 
terian  in  this  day!"  It  seemed  here  that  the  soul  of 


160  THE   SEEKER 

Aunt  Bell  poised  a  disdainful  lorgnette  before  its  eyes, 
through  which  to  survey  in  a  fitting  manner  the  un- 
modish  spectacle  of  Calvinism. 

"And  he  tells  me  that  he  has  his  grandfather's  con 
sent.  Really,  my  dear,  with  his  physique  and  voice  and 
manner  that  fellow  undoubtedly  has  a  future  in  the 
Episcopal  Church.  I  dare  say  he'll  be  wearing  the 
lawn  sleeves  and  rochet  of  a  bishop  before  he's  forty." 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Aunt  Bell,  that  he  is — well, 
just  the  least  trifle — I  was  going  to  say,  vain  of  his 
appearance — but  I'll  make  it  'self-conscious'?" 

"Child,  don't  you  know  that  a  young  man,  really 
beautiful  without  being  effeminate,  is  bound  to  be  con 
scious  of  it.  But  vain  he  is  not.  It  mortifies  him 
dreadfully,  though  he  pretends  to  make  light  of  it." 

"But  why  speak  of  it  so  often?  He  was  telling  me 
to-day  of  an  elderly  Englishman  who  addressed  him  on 
the  train,  telling  him  what  a  striking  resemblance  he 
bore  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  when  he  was  a  youth." 

"Quite  so;  and  he  told  me  yesterday  of  hearing  a 
lady  in  the  drug-store  ask  the  clerk  who  'that  handsome 
stranger'  was.  But,  my  dear,  he  tells  them  as  jokes 
on  himself,  and  he's  so  sheepish  about  it.  And  he's 
such  a  splendid  orator.  I  persuaded  him  to-day  to 
read  me  one  of  his  college  papers.  I  don't  seem  to 
recall  much  of  the  substance,  but  it  was  full  of  the  most 
beautiful  expressions.  One,  I  remember,  begins,  'Oh, 
of  all  the  flowers  that  swing  their  golden  censers  in  the 
parterre  of  the  human  heart,  none  so  rich,  so  rare  as 
this  one  flower  of — '  you  know  I've  forgotten  what  it 
was — Civilisation  or  Truth  or  something.  Anyway, 
whatever  it  was,  it  had  like  a  giant  engine  rolled  the 
car  of  Civilisation  out  from  the  maze  of  antiquity,  where 


IN  THE  FOLLY  OF  HIS  YOUTH      161 

she  now  waits  to  be  freighted  with  the  precious  fruits 
of  living  genius,  and  so  on." 

''That  seems  impressive  and — mixed,  perhaps?" 

"Of  course  I  can't  remember  things  in  their  order, 
but  it  was  about  the  essential  nature  of  man  being 
gregarious,  and  truth  is  a  potent  factor  in  civilisation, 
and  something  would  be  a  tear  on  the  world's  cold 
cheek  to  make  it  burn  forever — isn't  that  striking? 
And  Greece  had  her  Athens  and  her  Corinth,  but 
where  now  is  Greece  with  her  proud  cities?  And 
Rome,  Imperial  Rome,  with  all  her  pomp  and  splendour. 
Of  course  I  can't  recall  his  words.  There  was  a  beau 
tiful  reference  to  America,  I  remember,  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  from  the  lakes  of  the  frozen 
North  to  the  ever-tepid  waters  of  the  sunny  South — and 
a  perfectly  splendid  passage  about  the  world  is  and  ever 
has  been  illiberal.  Witness  the  lonely  lamp  of  Erasmus, 
the  cell  of  Galileo,  the  dying  bed  of  Pascal,  the  scaffold 
of  Sidney — Sidney  who,  I  wonder?" 

"Has  it  taken  you  that  way,  Aunt  Bell?" 

"And  France,  the  saddest  example  of  a  nation  with 
out  a  God,  and  succeeding  generations  will  only  add 
a  new  lustre  to  our  present  resplendent  glory,  bound 
together  by  the  most  sacred  ties  of  goodwill;  independ 
ent,  yet  acknowledging  the  sovereignty  of  Omnipotence, 
and  it  was  fraught  with  vital  interest  to  every  thinking 
man " 

"Spare  me,  Aunt  Bell — it's  like  Coney  Island,  with 
all  those  carrousels  going  around  and  five  bands  play 
ing  at  once!" 

"But  his  peroration!  I  can't  pretend  to  give  you 
any  idea  of  its  beauties — 

"Don't!" 


162  THE   SEEKER 

"Get  him  to  declaim  it  for  you.  It  begins  in  the 
most  impressive  language  about  his  standing  on  top  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains  one  day  and  placing  his  feet 
upon  a  solid  rock,  he  saw  a  tempest  gathering  in  the 
valley  far  below.  So  he  watches  the  storm — in  his  own 
language,  of  course — while  all  around  him  is  sunshine. 
And  such  should  be  our  aim  in  life,  to  plant  our  feet 
on  the  solid  rock  of — how  provoking!  I  can't  remem 
ber  what  the  rock  was — anyway,  we  are  to  bid  those 
in  the  valley  below  to  cease  their  bickerings  and  come 
up  to  the  rock — I  think  it  was  Intellectual  Greatness — 
No! — Unselfishness — that's  it.  And  the  title  of  the 
paper  was  a  sermon  in  itself — 'The  Temporal  Advan 
tage  of  the  Individual  No  Norm  of  Morality.'  Isn't 
that  a  beautiful  thought  in  itself?  Nancy,  that  chap 
will  waste  himself  until  he  has  a  city  parish." 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  time  before  Aunt  Bell 
asked,  as  one  having  returned  to  baser  matters: 

"I  wonder  if  the  jacket  of  my  gray  suit  came  back 
from  that  clumsy  tailor.  I  forgot  to  ask  Ellen  if  an 
express  package  came." 

And  Nancy,  whose  look  was  bent  far  into  the  dusk, 
answered : 

"Oh,  I  wonder  if  he  will  come  back!" 


BOOK  THREE 
The  Age  of  Faith 


BOOK  THREE— THE  AGE  OF  FAITH 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  PERVERSE  BEHAVIOUR  OF  AN  OLD  MAN 
AND  A  YOUNG  MAN 

WHEN  old  Allan  Delcher  slept  with  his  fathers — 
being  so  found  in  the  big  chair,  with  the  worn,  leather- 
bound  Bible  open  in  his  lap — the  revived  but  still  tender 
faith  of  Aunt  Bell  Hardwick  was  bitten  as  by  frost. 
And  this  though  the  Bible  had  lain  open  at  that  psalm 
in  which  David  is  said  to  describe  the  corruption  of  a 
natural  man — a  psalm  beginning,  "The  fool  hath  said 
in  his  heart,  'There  is  no  God.'" 

For  it  straightway  appeared  that  the  dead  man  had 
in  life  done  a  perverse  and  inexplicable  thing,  to  the 
bitter  amazement  of  those  who  had  learned  to  trust 
him.  On  the  day  after  he  sent  a  blasphemous  grandson 
from  his  door  he  had  called  for  Squire  Cumpston, 
announcing  to  the  family  his  intention  to  make  an  en 
tirely  new  will — a  thing  for  which  there  seemed  to  be  a 
certain  sad  necessity. 

When  he  could  no  longer  be  reproached  it  transpired 
that  he  had  left  "to  Allan  Delcher  Linford,  son  of  one 
Clayton  Linford,"  a  beggarly  pittance  of  five  thousand 
dollars;  and  "to  my  beloved  grandson,  Bernal  Linford, 
I  give,  devise  and  bequeath  the  residue  of  my  estate, 
both  real  and  personal." 

165 


166  THE  SEEKER 

Though  the  husband  of  her  niece  wore  publicly  a 
look  of  faith  unimpaired,  and  was  thereby  an  example 
to  her,  Aunt  Bell  declared  herself  to  be  once  more  on 
the  verge  of  believing  that  the  proofs  of  an  overseeing 
Providence,  all-wise  and  all-loving,  were  by  no  means 
overwhelming;  that  they  were,  indeed,  of  so  frail  a 
validity  that  she  could  not  wonder  at  people  falling 
away  from  the  Church.  It  was  a  trying  time  for  Aunt 
Bell.  She  felt  that  her  return  to  the  shadow  of  the 
cross  was  not  being  made  enough  of  by  the  One  above. 
After  years  of  running  after  strange  gods,  the  Episcopal 
service  as  administered  by  Allan  had  prevailed  over  her 
seasoned  skepticism:  through  its  fascinating  leaven  of 
romance — with  faint  and,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  wholly 
reverent  hints  of  physical  culture — the  spirit  may  be 
said  to  have  blandished  her.  And  now  this  turpitude 
in  a  man  of  God  came  to  disturb  the  first  tender  root- 
lings  of  her  new  faith. 

The  husband  of  her  niece  had  loyally  endeavoured 
to  dissuade  her  from  this  too  human  reaction. 

"  God  has  chosen  to  try  me  for  a  purpose,  Aunt  Bell," 
he  said  very  simply.  "I  ought  to  be  proud  of  it — 
eager  for  any  test — and  I  am.  True,  in  these  last  years 
I  had  looked  upon  grandfather's  fortune  as  mine — 
not  only  by  implied  promise,  but  by  all  standards  of 
right — even  of  integrity.  For  surely  a  man  could  not 
more  nearly  forfeit  his  own  rights,  in  every  moral  aspect, 
than  poor  Bernal  has — though  I  meant  always  to  stand 
by  him.  So  you  see,  I  must  conclude  that  God  means 
to  distinguish  me  by  a  test.  He  may  even  subject  me 
to  others;  but  I  shall  not  wince.  I  shall  welcome  His 
trials.  He  turned  upon  her  the  face  of  simple  faith." 


PERVERSE  BEHAVIOUR  16? 

"Did  you  speak  to  that  lawyer  about  the  possibility 
of  a  contest — of  proving  unsound  mind?" 

"I  did,  but  he  saw  no  chance  whatever." 

Aunt  Bell  hereupon  surveyed  her  beautifully  dimpled 
knuckles  minutely,  with  an  affectionate  pride — a  pride 
not  uncritical,  yet  wholly  convinced. 

"  Of  course,"  added  Allan  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"there's  no  sense  in  believing  that  every  bit  of  one's 
hard  luck  is  sent  by  God  to  test  one.  One  must  in  all 
reverence  take  every  precaution  to  prove  that  the  dis 
aster  is  not  humanly  remediable.  And  this,  I  may  say, 
I  have  done  with  thoroughness — with  great  thorough 
ness." 

"  Bernal  may  be  dead,"  suggested  Aunt  Bell,  brighten 
ing  now  from  an  impartial  admiring  of  the  toes  of  her 
small,  plump  slippers. 

"  God  forbid  that  he  should  be  cut  off  in  his  un 
belief — but  then,  God's  will  be  done.  If  that  be 
true,  of  course,  the  matter  is  different.  Meantime  we 
are  advertising." 

"I  wish  I  had  your  superb  faith,  Allan.  I  wish 
Nancy  had  it.  .  .  ." 

Her  niece's  husband  turned  his  head  and  shoulders 
until  she  had  the  three-quarters  view  of  his  face. 

"I  have  faith,  Aunt  Bell.  God  knows  my  unworthi- 
ness,  even  as  you  know  it  and  I  know  it — but  I  have 
faith!" 

The  golden  specks  in  his  hazel  eyes  blazed  with 
humility,  and  a  flush  of  the  same  virtue  mantled  his 
perfect  brow. 

Such  news  of  Bernal  Linford  as  had  come  back  to 
Edom,  though  meagre  and  fragmentary,  was  of  a  char- 


168  THE  SEEKER 

acter  to  confirm  the  worst  fears  of  those  who  loved  him. 
The  first  report  came  within  a  year  after  his  going,  and 
caused  a  shaking  of  many  heads. 

An  estimable  farmer,  one  Caleb  Webster,  living  on 
the  outskirts  of  Edom,  had,  in  a  blameless  spirit  of 
adventure,  toured  the  Far  West,  at  excursion  rates 
said  to  be  astounding  for  cheapness.  He  had  met  the 
unfortunate  young  man  in  one  of  the  newer  mining 
towns  along  his  exciting  route. 

"He  was  kind  of  nursin'  a  feller  that  had  the  con 
sumption,"  ran  the  gossip  of  Mr.  Webster,  "some  one 
he'd  fell  in  with  out  in  them  parts,  that  had  gone  there 
to  git  cured.  But,  High  Mighty!  the  way  them  two 
carried  on  at  all  hours  wasn't  goin'  to  cure  no  one  of 
nothin'I  Specially  gambling  which  was  done  right  in 
public,  you  might  say,  though  the  sharpers  never 
skinned  me  none,  I'll  say  that!  But  these  two  was  at  it 
every  night,  and  finally  they  done  just  like  I  told  the 
young  fools  they'd  do — they  lost  all  they  had.  They 
come  into  the  Commercial  House  one  night  where  I  was 
settin'  lookin'  over  a  time-table,  both  seemin'  down  in 
the  mouth.  And  all  to  once  this  sick  young  man — Mr. 
Hoover,  his  name  was — bust  out  cryin' — him  bein' 
weak  or  mebbe  in  liquor  or  somethin'. 

"Every  cent  lost!'  he  says,  the  tears  runnin'  down 
those  yellow,  sunk  cheeks  of  his.  But  Bernal  seems  to 
git  chipper  again  when  he  sees  how  Mr.  Hoover  is  takin' 
it,  so  he  says,  'Haven't  you  got  a  cent  left,  Hoover? 
Haven't  you  got  anythin'  at  all  left?  Just  think/  he 
says,  'what  1  stood  to  win  on  that  last  turn,  if  it'd  come 
my  way — at  four  to  one,'  he  says,  or  somethin'  like 
that;  them  gamblin'  terms  is  too  much  for  me.  'Hain't 
you  got  nothin'  at  all  left?'  he  says. 


PERVERSE   BEHAVIOUR  169 

"Then  this  Hoover — still  cryin',  mind  you — he  says, 
'Not  a  cent  in  the  world  except  forty  dollars  in  my  trunk 
upstairs  that  I  saved  out  to  bury  me  with — and  they 
won't  send  me  another  cent/  he  says,  '  because  I  tried 
'em/ 

"It  sounded  awful  to  hear  him  talkin'  like  that  about 
his  own  burying  but  it  didn't  phase  Bernal  none. 

" '  Forty  dollars ! '  he  says,  kind  of  sniffy  like.  '  Why, 
man,  what  could  you  do  for  forty  dollars  ?  Don't  you 
know  such  things  are  very  outrageous  in  price  here? 
Forty  dollars — why, '  he  says,  '  the  very  best  you  could 
do  would  be  one  of  these  plain  pine  things  with  black 
cloth  tacked  on  to  it,  and  pewter  trimmin's  if  any,'  he 
says.  'Think  of  pewter  trimmin's!' 

"'Say/  he  says,  when  Hoover  begun  to  look  up  at 
him,  'you  run  and  dig  up  your  old  forty  and  I'll  go  back 
right  now  and  win  you  out  a  full  satin-lined,  silver- 
trimmed  one,  polished  mahogany  and  gold  name-plate, 
and  there'll  be  enough  for  a  clock  of  immortelles  with  the 
hands  stopped  at  just  the  hour  it  happens/  he  says. 
'And  you  want  to  hurry/  he  says,  'it  ought  to  be  done 
right  away — with  that  cough  of  yours.' 

"Me?  Gosh,  I  felt  awful — I  wanted  to  drop  right 
through  the  floor,  but  this  Hoover,  he  says  all  at  once, 
still  snufflin',  mind  you:  'Say,  that's  all  right/  he  says. 
'If  I'm  goin'  to  do  it  at  all,  I  ought  to  do  it  right  for  the 
credit  of  my  folks.  I  ought  to  give  this  town  a  flash  of 
the  right  thing/  he  says. 

"Then  he  goes  upstairs,  leaning  on  the  balusters,  and 
gets  his  four  ten-dollar  bills  that  had  been  folded  away 
all  neat  at  the  bottom  of  his  trunk,  and  before  I  could 
think  of  anythin'  wholesome  to  say — I  was  that  scan 
dalised — they  was  goin'  off  across  the  street  to  the 


170  THE  SEEKER 

Horseshoe  Gamin'  Parlour,  this  feller  Hoover  seemin* 
very  sanguine  and  asking  Bernal  whether  he  was  sure 
they  was  a  party  in  town  could  do  it  up  right  after  they'd 
went  and  won  the  money  for  it. 

"Well,  sir,  I  jest  set  there  thinkin'  how  this  boy  Ber 
nal  Linford  was  brought  up  for  a  preacher,  and  'Jest 
look  at  him  now!'  I  says  to  myself — and  I  guess  it  was 
mebbe  an  hour  later  I  seen  'em  comin'  out  of  the 
swingin'  blinds  in  the  door  of  this  place,  and  a  laffin' 
fit  to  kill  themselves.  'High  Mighty!  they  done  it!'  I 
says,  watchin'  'em  laff  and  slap  each  other  on  the  back 
till  Hoover  had  to  stop  in  the  middle  of  the  street  to 
cough.  Well,  they  come  into  the  Commercial  office 
where  I  am  and  I  says,  '  Well,  boys,  how  much  did  you 
fellers  win  ? '  and  Hoover  says,  '  Not  a  cent !  We  lost 
our  roll,'  he  says.  '  It's  the  blamedest  funniest  thing  I 
ever  heard  of,'  he  says,  just  like  that,  laffin'  again  fit  to 
choke. 

:"I  don't  see  anythin'  to  laff  at/  I  says.  'How  you 
goin'  to  live?' 

"'How's  he  goin'  to  die?'  says  Bernal,  'without  a 
cent  to  do  it  on?' 

"'That's  the  funny  part  of  it,'  says  Hoover.  'Lin- 
ford  thought  of  it  first.  How  can  I  die  now?  It 
wouldn't  be  square/  he  says — 'me  without  a  cent!' 

"Then  they  both  began  to  laugh — but  me,  I  couldn't 
see  nothin'  funny  about  it. 

"Wai,  I  left  early  next  mornin',  not  wantin'  to  have 
to  refuse  'em  a  loan." 


CHAPTER    II 
How  A  BROTHER  WAS  DIFFERENT 

IN  contrast  with  this  regrettable  performance  of  Ber- 
nal's,  which,  alas!  bore  internal  evidence  of  being  a 
type  of  many,  was  the  flawless  career  of  Allan,  the  duti 
ful  and  earnest.  Not  only  did  he  complete  his  course 
at  the  General  Theological  Seminary  with  great  honour, 
but  he  was  ordained  into  the  Episcopal  ministry  under 
circumstances  entirely  auspicious.  Aunt  Bell  con 
fided  to  Nancy  that  his  superior  presence  quite  dwarfed 
the  bishop  who  ordained  him. 

His  ordination  sermon,  moreover,  which  his  grand 
father  had  been  persuaded  into  journeying  to  hear,  was 
held  by  many  to  be  a  triumph  of  pulpit  oratory  no  less 
than  an  able  yet  not  unpoetic  handling  of  his  text, 
which  was  from  John — "The  Truth  shall  make  you 
free." 

Truth,  he  declared,  was  the  crowning  glory  in 
the  diadem  of  man's  attributes,  and  a  subject  fraught 
with  vital  interest  to  every  thinking  man.  The  essen 
tial  nature  of  man  being  gregarious,  how  important  that 
the  leader  of  men  should  hold  Truth  to  be  like  a  diamond, 
made  only  the  brighter  by  friction.  The  world  is  and 
ever  has  been  illiberal.  Witness  the  lonely  lamp  of 
Erasmus,  the  cell  of  Galileo,  the  dying  bed  of  Pascal, 
the  scaffold  of  Sidney — all  fighters  for  truth  against  the 
masses  who  cannot  think  for  themselves. 

171 


172  THE  SEEKER 

Truth  was,  indeed,  a  potent  factor  in  civilisation.  If 
only  all  truth-lovers  could  feel  bound  together  by  the 
sacred  ties  of  fraternal  good-will,  independent  yet 
acknowledging  the  sovereignty  of  Omnipotence,  suc 
ceeding  ages  could  but  add  a  new  lustre  to  their  present 
resplendent  glory. 

Truth,  triumphant  out  of  oppression,  is  a  tear  falling 
on  the  world's  cold  cheek  to  make  it  burn  forever.  Why 
fear  the  revelation  of  truth?  Greece  had  her  Athens 
and  her  Corinth,  but  where  is  Greece  to-day  ?  Rome, 
too,  Imperial  Rome,  with  all  her  pomp  and  polish! 
They  were,  but  they  are  not — for  want  of  Truth.  But 
might  not  we  hope  for  a  land  where  Truth  would  reign 
— from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  from  the  lakes  of  the 
frozen  North  to  the  ever-tepid  waters  of  the  sunny 
South  ? 

Truth  is  the  grand  motor-power  which,  like  a  giant 
engine,  has  rolled  the  car  of  civilisation  out  from  the 
maze  of  antiquity  where  it  now  waits  to  be  freighted 
with  the  precious  fruits  of  living  genius. 

The  young  man's  final  flight  was  observed  by  Aunt 
Bell  to  impress  visibly  even  the  bishop — a  personage 
whom  she  had  begun  to  suspect  was  the  least  bit  cynical, 
perhaps  from  having  listened  to  many  first  sermons. 

"Standing  one  day,"  it  began,  "near  the  summit  of 
one  of  the  grand  old  Rocky  Mountains  that  in  primeval 
ages  was  elevated  from  ocean's  depths  and  now  towers 
its  snow-capped  peak  heavenward  touching  the  azure 
blue,  I  witnessed  a  scene  which,  for  beauty  of  illustration 
of  the  thought  in  hand,  the  world  cannot  surpass. 
Placing  my  feet  upon  a  solid  rock,  I  saw,  far  down  in 
the  valley  below,  the  tempest  gathering.  Soon  the  low- 
muttered  thunder  and  vivid  flashes  of  lightning  gave 


HOW  A  BROTHER  WAS  DIFFERENT     173 

token  of  increasing  turbulence  with  Nature's  elements. 
Thus  the  storm  raged  far  below  while  all  around  me 
and  above  glittered  the  pure  sunlight  of  heaven,  where 
I  mingled  in  the  blue  serene;  until  at  last  the  thought 
came  electric-like,  as  half-divine,  here  is  exemplified 
in  Nature's  own  impressive  language  the  simple 
grandeurs  of  Truth.  While  we  are  in  the  valley  below, 
we  have  ejbullitions  of  discontent  and  murmurings  of 
strife ;  but  as  we  near  the  summit  of  Truth  our  thought 
becomes  elevated.  Then  placing  our  feet  on  the 
solid  Rock  of  Ages,  we  call  to  those  in  the  valley 
below  to  cease  their  bickerings  and  come  up 
higher. 

"Truth!  Oh,  of  all  the  flowers  that  swing  their 
golden  censers  in  the  parterre  of  the  human  heart,  none 
so  rich,  so  rare,  as  this  one  flower  of  Truth.  Other 
flowers  there  may  be  that  yield  as  rich  perfume,  but 
they  must  be  crushed  in  order  that  their  fragrance 
become  perceptible.  But  the  soul  of  this  flower  courses 
its  way  down  the  garden  walk,  out  through  the  deep, 
dark  dell,  over  the  burning  plain,  up  the  mountain-side, 
up  and  ever  UP  it  rises  into  the  beautiful  blue;  all  along 
the  cloudy  corridors  of  the  day,  up  along  the  misty 
pathway  to  the  skies,  till  it  touches  the  beautiful  shore 
and  mingles  with  the  breath  of  angels!" 

Yet  a  perverse  old  man  had  sat  stonily  under  this  ser 
mon — had,  even  after  so  effective  a  baptism,  neglected 
to  undo  that  which  he  should  never  have  done.  More 
over,  even  on  the  day  of  this  notable  sermon,  he  was 
known  to  have  referred  to  the  young  man,  within  the 
hearing  of  a  discreet  housekeeper,  as  "the  son  of  his 
father" — which  was  an  invidious  circumlocution, 
amounting  almost  to  an  epithet.  And  he  had  most 


174  THE  SEEKER 

weakly  continued  to  grieve  for  the  wayward  lost  son  of 
his  daughter — the  godless  boy  whom  he  had  driven 
from  his  door. 

Not  even  the  other  bit  of  news  that  came  a  little  later 
had  sufficed  to  make  him  repair  his  injustice;  and  this, 
though  the  report  came  by  the  Reverend  Arthur  Pelham 
Gridley,  incumbent  of  the  Presbyterian  pulpit  at  Edom, 
who  could  preach  sermons  the  old  man  liked. 

Mr.  Gridley,  returning  from  a  certain  gathering  of 
the  brethren  at  Denver,  had  brought  this  news:  That 
Bernal  Linford  had  been  last  seen  walking  south  from 
Denver,  like  a  common  tramp,  in  the  company  of  a 
poor  half-witted  creature  who  had  aroused  some  local 
excitement  by  declaring  himself  to  be  the  son  of  God, 
speaking  familiarly  of  the  Deity  as  "Father." 

As  this  impious  person  had  been  of  a  very  simple 
mind  and  behaved  inoffensively,  rather  shrinking  from 
publicity  than  courting  it,  he  had  at  first  attracted  little 
attention.  It  appeared,  however,  that  he  had  presently 
begun  an  absurd  pretence  of  healing  the  sick  and  the 
lame;  and,  like  all  charlatans,  he  so  cunningly  worked 
upon  the  imaginations  of  his  dupes  that  a  remarkable 
number  of  them  believed  that  they  actually  had  been 
healed  by  him.  In  fact,  the  nuisance  of  his  operations 
had  grown  to  an  extent  so  alarming  that  thousands  of 
people  stood  in  line  from  early  morning  until  dusk 
awaiting  their  turn  to  be  blessed  and  "healed"  by  the 
impostor.  Just  as  several  of  the  clergy,  said  Mr.  Grid- 
ley,  were  on  the  point  of  denouncing  this  creature  as 
anti-Christ  and  thus  exploding  his  pretensions ;  and  when 
the  city  authorities,  indeed,  appealed  to  by  the  local 
physicians,  were  on  the  point  of  suppressing  him  for 
disorderly  conduct,  and  a  menace  to  the  public  health, 


HOW  A  BROTHER  WAS  DIFFERENT     175 

since  he  was  encouraging  the  people  to  forsake  their 
family  physicians;  and  just  as  the  news  came  that  a 
long  train-load  of  the  variously  suffering  was  on  its  way 
from  Omaha,  the  wretched  impostor  had  himself  solved 
the  difficulty  by  quietly  disappearing.  As  he  had 
refused  to  take  money  from  the  thousands  of  his  dupes 
who  had  pressed  it  upon  him  in  their  fancied  relief  from 
pain,  it  was  known  that  he  could  not  be  far  off,  and 
some  curiosity  was  at  first  felt  as  to  his  whereabouts — 
particularly  by  those  superstitious  ones  who  continued 
to  believe  he  had  healed  them  of  their  infirmities,  not  a 
few  of  whom,  it  appeared,  were  disposed  to  credit  his 
blasphemous  claim  to  have  been  sent  by  God. 

According  to  the  lookout  thus  kept  for  this  person,  it 
was  reported  that  he  had  been  seen  to  pass  on  foot 
through  towns  lying  south  of  Denver,  meanly  dressed 
and  accompanied  by  a  young  man  named  Linford. 
To  all  inquiries  he  answered  that  he  was  on  his  way  to 
fast  in  the  desert  as  his  " Father"  had  commanded. 
His  companion  was  even  less  communicative,  saying 
somewhat  irritably  that  his  goings  and  comings  were 
nobody's  business  but  his  own. 

Some  six  months  later  the  remains  of  the  unfortunate 
person  were  found  in  a  wrild  place  far  to  the  south,  with 
his  Bible  and  his  blanket.  It  was  supposed  that  he  had 
starved.  Of  Linford  no  further  trace  had  been  dis 
covered. 

The  most  absurd  tales  were  now  told,  said  Mr. 
Gridley,  of  the  miracles  of  healing  wrought  by  this 
person — told,  moreover,  by  persons  of  intelligence 
whom  in  ordinary  matters  one  would  not  hesitate  to 
trust.  There  had  even  been  a  story  started,  which  was 
widely  believed,  that  he  had  raised  the  dead;  moreover, 


176  THE  SEEKER 

many  of  those  who  had  been  deluded  into  believing 
themselves  healed,  looked  forward  confidently  to  his 
own  resurrection. 

Mr.  Gridley  ventured  the  opinion  that  we  should  be 
thankful  to  the  daily  press  which  now  disseminates  the 
news  of  such  things  promptly,  instead  of  allowing  it  to 
travel  slowly  by  word  of  mouth,  as  it  did  in  less  advanced 
times — a  process  in  which  a  little  truth  becomes  very 
shortly  a  mighty  untruth.  Even  between  Denver  and 
Omaha  he  had  observed  that  the  wonder-talcs  of  this 
person  grew  apace,  thus  proving  the  inaccuracy  of  the 
human  mind  as  a  reporter  of  fact.  Without  the  check 
of  an  unemotional  daily  press  Mr.  Gridley  suspected 
that  the  poor  creature's  performances  would  have  been 
magnified  by  credulous  gossip  until  he  became  the 
founder  of  a  new  religion — a  thing  especially  to  be 
dreaded  in  a  day  when  the  people  were  crazed  for  any 
new  thing — as  Paul  found  them  in  Athens. 

Mr.  Gridley  mentioned  further  that  the  person  had 
suffered  from  what  the  alienists  called  "morbid  delu 
sions  of  grandeur" — believing,  indeed,  that  but  One 
other  in  the  universe  was  greater  than  himself;  that  he 
would  sit  at  the  right  hand  of  Power  to  judge  all  the 
world.  His  most  puerile  pretension,  however,  was  that 
he  meant  to  live,  even  if  the  work  required  a  thousand 
years,  until  such  time  as  he  could  save  all  persons  into 
heaven,  so  that  hell  need  have  no  occupants. 

But  this  distressing  tale  did  not  move  old  Allan  Del- 
cher  to  reconsider  his  perverse  decision,  though  there 
had  been  ample  time  for  reparation.  Placidly  he 
dropped  off  one  day,  a  little  while  after  he  had  cautioned 
Clytie  to  keep  the  house  ready  for  Bernal's  coming; 
and  to  have  always  on  hand  one  of  those  fig  layer-cakes 


HOW  A  BROTHER  WAS  DIFFERENT    177 

of  which  he  was  so  fond,  since  as  likely  as  not  he  would 
ask  for  this  the  first  thing,  just  us  he  used  to  do.  It 
must  seem  homelike  to  him  when  he  did  come. 

Having  betrayed  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  an 
unsuspecting  grandson,  it  seemed  fitting  that  he  should 
fall  asleep  over  that  very  psalm  wherein  David  describeth 
the  corruption  of  the  natural  man. 


CHAPTER  III 
How  EDOM  WAS  FAVOURED  OF  GOD  AND  MAMMON 

IN  the  years  gone,  the  village  of  Edom  had  matured, 
even  as  little  boys  wax  to  manhood.  Time  was  when 
all  but  two  trains  daily  sped  by  it  so  fast  that  from 
their  windows  its  name  over  the  station  door  was  naught 
but  a  blur.  Now  all  was  changed.  Many  trains 
stopped,  and  people  of  the  city  mien  descended  from  or 
entered  smart  traps,  yellow  depot-wagons  or  immacu 
late  victorias,  drawn  by  short-tailed,  sophisticated  steeds 
managed  by  liveried  persons  whose  scraped  faces  were 
at  once  impassive  and  alert. 

In  its  outlying  parts,  moreover,  stately  villas  now 
stood  in  the  midst  of  grounds  hedged,  levelled,  sprayed, 
shaven,  trimmed  and  garnished — grounds  cherished 
sacredly  with  a  reverence  like  unto  that  once  accorded 
the  Front  Room  in  this  same  village.  Edom,  indeed, 
had  outgrown  its  villagehood  as  a  country  boy  in  the 
city  will  often  outgrow  his  home  ways.  That  is,  it 
was  still  a  village  in  its  inmost  heart;  but  outwardly, 
at  its  edges,  the  distinctions  and  graces  of  urban  world- 
liness  had  come  upon  it. 

All  this  from  the  happy  circumstance  that  Edom  lay 
in  a  dale  of  beauty  not  too  far  from  the  blessed  centre  of 
things  requisite.  First,  one  by  one,  then  by  families, 
then  by  groups  of  families,  then  by  cliques,  the  invaders 
had  come  to  promote  Edom's  importance;  one  being 

178 


HOW  EDOM  WAS  FAVOURED  OF  GOD    179 

brought  by  the  gracious  falling  of  its  little  hills;  one  by 
its  narrow  valleys  where  the  quick  little  waters  come 
down;  one  by  the  clearness  of  its  air;  and  one  by  the 
cheapness  with  which  simple  old  farms  might  be 
bought  and  converted  into  the  most  city-like  of  country 
homes. 

The  old  stock  of  Edom  had  early  learned  not  to  part 
with  any  massive  claw-footed  sideboard  with  glass 
knobs,  or  any  mahogany  four-poster,  or  tall  clock,  or 
high-boy,  except  after  feigning  a  distressed  reluctance. 
It  had  learned  also  to  hide  its  consternation  at  the 
prices  which  this  behaviour  would  eventually  induce 
the  newcomers  to  pay  for  such  junk.  Indeed,  it  learned 
very  soon  to  be  a  shrewd  valuer  of  old  mahogany, 
pewter,  and  china;  even  to  suspect  that  the  buyers  might 
perceive  beauties  in  it  that  justified  the  prices  they  paid. 

Old  Edom,  too,  has  its  own  opinion  of  the  relative 
joys  of  master  and  servant,  the  latter  being  always 
debonair,  their  employers  stiff,  formal  and  concerned. 
It  conceives  that  the  employers,  indeed,  have  but  one 
pleasure:  to  stand  beholding  with  anxious  solemnity — 
quite  as  if  it  were  the  performance  of  a  religious  rite — 
the  serious-visaged  men  who  daily  barber  the  lawns 
and  hedges.  It  is  suspected  by  old  Edomites  that  the 
menials,  finding  themselves  watched  at  this  delicate 
task,  strive  to  copy  in  face  and  demeanour  the  solemnity 
of  the  observing  employer — clipping  the  box  hedge  one 
more  fraction  of  an  inch  with  the  wariest  caution — 
maintaining  outwardly,  in  short,  a  most  reverent  seri 
ousness  which  in  their  secret  hearts  they  do  not  feel. 

Let  this  be  so  or  not.  The  point  is  that  Edom  had 
gone  beyond  its  three  churches  of  Calvin,  Wesley  and 
Luther — to  say  nothing  of  one  poor  little  frame  structure 


180  THE  SEEKER 

with  a  cross  at  the  peak,  where  a  handful  of  benighted 
Romanists  had  long  been  known  to  perform  their 
idolatrous  rites.  Now,  indeed,  as  became  a  smartened 
village,  there  was  a  perfect  little  Episcopal  church  of 
redstone,  stained  glass  and  painted  shingles,  with  a 
macadam  driveway  leading  under  its  dainty  porte- 
cochere,  and  at  the  base  of  whose  stern  little  tower  an 
eager  ivy  already  aspired;  a  toy-like,  yet  suggestively 
imposing  edifice,  quite  in  the  manner  of  smart  suburban 
churches — a  manner  that  for  want  of  accurate  knowl 
edge  one  might  call  confectioner's  gothic. 

It  was  here,  in  his  old  home,  that  the  Reverend  Allan 
Delcher  Linford  found  his  first  pastorate.  Here  from 
the  very  beginning  he  rendered  apparent  those  gifts 
that  were  to  make  him  a  power  among  men.  It  was 
with  a  lofty  but  trembling  hope  that  the  young  novice 
began  his  first  service  that  June  morning,  before  a  con 
gregation  known  to  be  hypercritical,  composed  as  it 
was  of  seasoned  city  communicants,  hardened  listeners 
and  watchers,  who  would  appraise  his  vestments,  voice, 
manner,  appearance,  and  sermon,  in  the  light  of  a  ripe 
experience. 

Yet  his  success  was  instant.  He  knew  it  long  before 
the  service  ended — felt  it  infallibly  all  at  once  in  the 
midst  of  his  sermon  on  Faith.  From  the  reading  of 
his  text,  "For  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his 
only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  believed  therein 
might  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life,"  the  worldly 
people  before  him  were  held  as  by  invisible  wires  run 
ning  from  him  to  each  of  them.  He  felt  them  sway  in 
obedience  to  his  tones;  they  warmed  with  him  and 
cooled  with  him;  aspired  with  him,  questioned,  agreed, 
and  glowed  with  him.  They  were  his — one  with  him. 


HOW  EDOM  WAS  FAVOURED  OF  GOD     181 

Their  eyes  saw  a  young  man  in  the  splendour  of  his 
early  prime,  of  a  faultless,  but  truly  masculine  beauty, 
delicate  yet  manfully  rugged,  square-chinned,  straight- 
mouthed,  with  tawny  hair  and  hazel  eyes  full  of 
glittering  golden  points  when  his  eloquence  mounted; 
clear-skinned,  brilliant,  warm-voiced,  yet  always  simple, 
direct,  earnest;  a  storehouse  of  power,  yet  ornate;  a 
source  of  refreshment  both  physical  and  spiritual  to 
all  within  the  field  of  his  magnetism. 

So  agreed  those  who  listened  to  that  first  sermon  on 
Faith,  in  which  that  virtue  was  said  be  like  the 
diamond,  made  only  the  brighter  by  friction.  Motion 
less  his  listeners  sat  while  he  likened  Faith  to  the  giant 
engine  that  has  rolled  the  car  of  Religion  out  from  the 
maze  of  antiquity  into  the  light  of  the  present  day, 
where  it  now  waits  to  be  freighted  with  the  precious 
fruits  of  living  genius,  then  to  speed  on  to  that  hoped- 
for  golden  era  when  truth  shall  come  forth  as  a  new  and 

o 

blazing  star  to  light  the  splendid  pageantry  of  earth, 
bound  together  in  one  law  of  universal  brotherhood, 
independent,  yet  acknowledging  the  sovereignty  of 
Omnipotence. 

Rapt  were  they  when,  with  rare  verbal  felicity  and 
unstudied  eloquence,  the  young  man  pictured  himself 
standing  upon  a  lofty  sunlit  mountain,  while  a  storm 
raged  in  the  valley  below,  calling  passionately  to  those 
far  down  in  the  ebullition  to  come  up  to  him  and  mingle 
in  the  blue  serene  of  Faith.  Faith  was,  indeed,  a  tear 
dropped  on  the  world's  cold  cheek  of  Doubt  to  make 
it  burn  forever. 

Even  those  long  since  blase  to  pulpit  oratory  thrilled 
at  the  simple  beauty  of  his  peroration,  which  ran: 
"Faith  !  Oh,  of  all  the  flowers  that  swing  their  golden 


182  THE  SEEKER 

censers  in  the  parterre  of  the  human  heart,  none  so 
rich,  so  rare,  as  this  one  flower  of  Faith.  Other  flowers 
there  may  be  that  yield  as  rich  perfume,  but  they  must 
be  crushed  in  order  that  their  fragrance  become  per 
ceptible.  But  this  flower — 

In  spite  of  this  triumph,  it  had  taken  him  still  another 
year  to  prevail  over  one  of  his  hearers.  True,  she  had 
met  him  after  that  first  triumphant  ordination  sermon 
with  her  black  lashes  but  half-veiling  the  admiration 
that  shone  warm  in  the  gray  of  her  eyes;  and  his  low 
assurance,  "Nance,  you  please  me!  Really  you  do!" 
as  his  yellow  eyes  lingered  down  her  rounded  slenderness 
from  summer  bonnet  to  hem  of  summer  gown,  rippled 
her  face  with  a  colour  she  had  to  laugh  away. 

Yet  she  had  been  obstinate  and  wondering.  There 
had  to  be  a  year  in  which  she  knew  that  one  she  dreamed 
of  would  come  back;  another  in  which  she  believed  he 
might;  another  in  which  she  hoped  he  would — and  yet 
another  in  which  she  realised  that  dreams  and  hopes 
alike  were  vain — vain,  though  there  were  times  in 
which  she  seemed  to  feel  again  the  tingling  life  of  that 
last  hand-clasp;  times  when  he  called  to  her;  times 
when  she  had  the  absurd  consciousness  that  his  mind 
pressed  upon  hers.  There  had  been  so  many  years 
and  so  much  wonder — and  no  one  came.  It  had  been 
foolish  indeed.  And  then  came  a  year  of  wondering 
at  the  other.  The  old  wonder  concerning  this  one, 
excited  by  a  certain  fashion  of  rendering  his  head  in 
unison  with  his  shoulders — as  might  the  statue  of 
Perfect  Beauty  turn  upon  its  pedestal — with  its  baser 
residue  of  suspicion,  had  been  happily  allayed  by  a 
closer  acquaintance  with  Allan.  One  must  learn,  it 
seemed,  to  distrust  those  lightning-strokes  of  prejudice 


HOW  EDOM  WAS  FAVOURED  OF  GOD     183 

that  flash  but  once  at  the  first  contact  between  human 
clouds. 

Yet  in  the  last  year  there  had  come  another  wonder 
that  excited  a  suspicion  whose  troubling-power  was 
absurdly  out  of  all  true  proportion. 

It  was  in  the  matter  of  seeing  things — that  is,  funny 
things. 

Doubtless  she  had  told  him  a  few  things  more  or  less 
funny  that  had  seemed  to  move  him  to  doubt  or  per 
plexity,  or  to  mere  seriousness;  but,  indeed,  they  had 
seemed  less  funny  to  her  after  that.  For  example,  she 
had  told  Aunt  Bell  the  anecdote  of  the  British  lady  of 
title  who  says  to  her  curate,  concerning  a  worthy  rela 
tive  by  marriage  lately  passed  away,  toward  whom  she 
has  felt  kindly  despite  his  inferior  station:  "Of  course 
I  couldn't  know  him  here — but  we  shall  meet  in  heaven." 
Aunt  Bell  had  been  edified  by  this,  remarking  earnestly 
that  such  differences  would  indeed  be  wiped  out  in 
heaven.  Yet  when  Nancy  went  to  Allan  in  a  certain 
bubbling  condition  over  the  anecdote  itself  and  Aunt 
Bell's  comment  thereon,  he  made  her  repeat  it  slowly, 
after  the  first  hurried  telling,  and  had  laughed  but 
awkwardly  with  her,  rather  as  if  it  were  expected  of 
him — with  an  eye  vacant  of  all  but  wonder — like  a 
traveller  not  sure  he  had  done  right  to  take  the  left-hand 
turn  at  the  last  cross-roads. 

Again,  the  bishop  who  ordained  him  had,  in  a  relaxed 
and  social  moment  after  the  ceremony,  related  that 
little  classic  of  Bishop  Meade,  who,  during  the  fight 
over  a  certain  disestablishment  measure,  was  asked 
by  a  lobbyist  how  he  would  vote.  The  dignified  pre 
late  had  replied  that  he  would  vote  for  the  bill,  for  he 
held  that  every  man  should  have  the  right  to  choose  his 


184  THE  SEEKER 

own  way  to  heaven.  None  the  less,  he  would  continue 
to  be  certain  that  a  gentleman  would  always  take  the 
Episcopal  way.  To  Nancy  Allan  retold  this,  adding, 

"You  know,  I'm  going  to  use  it  in  a  sermon  some 
time." 

"Yes — it's  very  funny,"  she  answered,  a  little  uncer 
tainly. 

"Funny?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Of  course — I've  heard  the  bishop  tell  it  myself — 
and  I  know  he  thinks  it  funny." 

"Well — then  I'll  use  it  as  a  funny  story.  Of  course, 
it  is  funny — I  only  thought" — what  it  was  he  only 
thought  Nancy  never  knew. 

Small  bits  of  things  to  wonder  at,  these  were,  and 
the  wonder  brought  no  illumination.  She  only  knew 
there  were  times  when  they  two  seemed  of  different 
worlds,  bereft  of  power  to  communicate;  and  at  these 
times  his  superbly  assured  wooing  left  her  slightly 
dazed. 

But  there  were  other  times,  and  different — and 
slowly  she  became  used  to  the  idea  of  him — persuaded 
both  by  his  own  court  and  by  the  spirited  encomiums 
that  he  evoked  from  Aunt  Bell. 

Aunt  Bell  was  at  that  time  only  half  persuaded  by 
Allan  to  re-enter  the  church  of  her  blameless  infancy. 
She  was  still  minded  to  seek  a  little  longer  outside  the 
fold  that  rapport  with  the  Universal  Mind  which  she 
had  never  ceased  to  crave.  In  this  process  she  had 
lately  discarded  Esoteric  Buddhism  for  Subliminal 
Monitions  induced  by  Psychic  Breathing  and  correct 
breakfast-food.  For  all  that,  she  felt  competent  to 


HOW  EDOM  WAS  FAVOURED  OF  GOD    185 

declare  that  Allan  was  the  only  possible  husband  for  her 
niece,  and  her  niece  came  to  suspect  that  this  might 
be  so. 

When  at  last  she  had  wondered  herself  into  a  state 
of  inward  readiness — a  state  still  governed  by  her  out 
ward  habit  of  resistance,  this  last  was  beaten  down  by 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Tednick,  who  had  been  a  school 
friend  as  Clara  Tremaine,  and  was  now  married,  appar 
ently  with  results  not  too  desirable. 

"Never,  my  dear,"  ran  the  letter  to  Nancy,  " per 
mit  yourself  to  think  of  marrying  a  man  who  has 
not  a  sense  of  humour.  Do  I  seem  flippant?  Don't 
think  it.  I  am  conveying  to  you  the  inestimable  bene 
fits  of  a  trained  observation.  Humour  saves  a  man 
from  being  impossible  in  any  number  of  ways — from 
boring  you  to  beating  you.  (Yoa  may  live  to  realise 
that  the  tragedy  of  the  first  is  not  less  poignant  than  that 
of  the  second.)  Whisper,  dear! — All  men  are  equally 
vain — at  least  in  their  ways  with  a  woman — but  humour 
assuredly  preserves  many  unto  death  from  betraying 
it  egregiously.  Beware  of  him  if  he  lack  it.  He  has 
power  to  crucify  you  daily,  and  yet  be  in  honest  igno 
rance  of  your  tortures.  Don't  think  I  am  cynical — and 
indeed,  my  own  husband  is  one  of  the  best  and  dearest 
of  souls  in  the  world,  the  biggest  heart — but  be  sure  you 
marry  no  man  without  humour.  Don't  think  a  man 
has  it  merely  because  he  tells  funny  stories;  the  humour 
I  mean  is  a  kind  of  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  that 
keeps  a  man  from  forgetting  himself.  And  if  he 
hasn't  humour,  don't  think  he  can  make  you  happy, 
even  if  his  vanity  doesn't  show.  He  can't — after  the 
expiration  of  that  brief  period  in  which  the  vanity  of 
each  is  a  holy  joy  to  the  other.  Remember  now!" 


186  THE  SEEKER 

Curiously  enough  this  well-intended  homily  had  the 
effect  of  arousing  in  Nancy  an  instant  sense  of  loyalty 
to  Allan.  She  suffered  little  flashes  of  resentment  at 
the  thought  that  Clara  Tremaine  should  seem  to  de 
preciate  one  toward  whom  she  felt  herself  turning  with 
a  sudden  defensive  tenderness.  And  this,  though  it 
was  clear  to  the  level  eye  of  reason  that  Clara  must 
have  been  generalising  on  observations  made  far  from 
Edom.  But  her  loyal  spirit  was  not  less  eager  to  resent 
an  affront  because  it  might  seem  to  have  been  aimless. 

And  thereafter,  though  never  ceasing  to  wonder, 
Nancy  was  won.  Her  consent,  at  length,  went  to  him 
in  her  own  volume  of  Browning,  a  pink  rose  shut  in 
upon  "A  Woman's  Last  Word" — its  petals  bruised 
against  the  verses : 

"What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee? 

Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is, 
Shun  the  tree. 

"Where  the  apple  reddens, 

Never  pry — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 
Eve  and  I. 

"Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm! 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 
With  thine  arm!" 

That  was  a  moment  of  sweetness,  of  utter  rest,  of 
joyous  peace — fighting  no  longer. 

A  little  while  and  he  was  before  her,  proud  as  a 
conquerer  may  be — glad  as  a  lover  should. 

"I  always  knew  it,  Nance — you  had  to  give  in." 


HOW  EDOM  WAS  FAVOURED  OF  GOD    187 

Then  as  she  drooped  in  his  arms,  a  mere  fragrant, 
pulsing,  glad  submission — 

"You  have  always  pleased  me,  Nancy.  I  know  I 
shall  never  regret  my  choice." 

And  Nancy,  scarce  hearing,  wondered  happily  on  his 
breast. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  WINNING  OF  BROWETT 

A  THOUGHTFUL  Pagan  once  reported  dignity  to  con 
sist  not  in  possessing  honours,  but  in  the  consciousness 
that  we  deserve  them.  It  is  a  theory  fit  to  console 
multitudes.  Kdom's  young  rector  was  not  only  con 
soled  by  it,  he  was  stimulated.  To  his  ardent  nature, 
the  consciousness  of  deserving  honour  was  the  first 
vital  step  toward  gaining  it.  Those  things  that  he 
believed  himself  to  deserve  he  forthwith  subjected 
to  the  magnetic  rays  of  his  desire:  Knowing  with  the 
inborn  certainty  of  the  successful,  that  they  must  finally 
yield  to  such  silent,  coercing  influence  and  soon  or 
late  gravitate  toward  him  in  obedience  to  the  same  law 
that  draws  the  apple  to  the  earth's  lap.  In  this  manner 
had  the  young  man  won  his  prizes  for  oratory;  so  had 
he  won  his  wife;  so  had  he  won  his  first  pastorate;  so 
now  would  he  win  that  prize  he  was  conscious  of  merit 
ing  next — a  city  parish — a  rectorate  in  the  chief  seat 
of  his  church  in  America,  where  was  all  wealth  and 
power  as  well  as  the  great  among  men,  to  be  swayed  by 
his  eloquence  and  brought  at  last  to  the  Master's  feet. 
And  here,  again,  would  his  future  enlarge  to  prospects 
now  but  mistily  surmised — prospects  to  be  moved  upon 
anon  with  triumphant  tread.  Infinite  aspiration  open 
ing  ever  beyond  itself — this  was  his.  Meantime,  step 
by  step,  with  zealous  care  for  the  accuracy  of  each, 

188 


THE  WINNING  OF  BROWETT         189 

with  eyes  always  ahead,  leaving  nothing  undone — he 
was  forever  fashioning  the  moulds  into  which  the 
Spirit  should  materialise  his  benefits. 

The  first  step  was  the  winning  of  Browett — old 
Cyrus  Browett,  whose  villa,  in  the  fashion  of  an  Eng 
lish  manor-house,  was  a  feature  of  remark  even  to  the 
Edom  summer  dwellers — a  villa  whose  wide  grounds 
were  so  swept,  garnished,  trimly  flowered,  hedge- 
bordered  and  shrub-upholstered  that,  to  old  Edom, 
they  were  like  stately  parlours  built  foolishly  out  of 
doors. 

Months  had  the  rector  of  tiny  St.  Anne's  waited  for 
Browett  to  come  to  him,  knowing  that  Browett  must 
come  in  the  end.  One  less  instinctively  wise  would 
have  made  the  mistake  of  going  to  Browett.  Not  this 
one,  whose  good  spirit  warned  him  that  his  puissance 
lay  rather  with  groups  of  men  than  with  individuals. 
From  back  of  the  chancel  railing  he  could  sway  the 
crowd  and  make  it  all  his  own;  whereas,  taking  that 
same  crowd  singly,  and  beyond  his  sacerdotal  functions, 
he  might  be  at  the  mercy  of  each  man  composing  it. 
He  knew,  in  short,  that  Cyrus  Browett  as  one  of  his 
congregation  on  a  Sabbath  morning  would  be  a  mere 
atom  in  the  plastic  cosmos  below  him;  whereas  Browett 
by  himself,  with  the  granite  hardness  of  his  crag-like 
face,  his  cool  little  green  eyes — unemotional  as  two 
algebraic  x's — would  be  a  matter  fearfully  different. 
Even  his  white  moustache,  close-clipped  as  his  own 
hedges,  and  guarding  a  stiff,  chilled  mouth,  was  a  thing 
grimly  repressed,  telling  that  the  man  was  quite  invul 
nerable  to  his  own  vanity.  A  human  Browett  would 
have  permitted  that  moustache  to  mitigate  its  sur 
roundings  with  some  flowing  grace.  He  was,  indeed, 


190  THE  SEEKER 

no  adversary  to  meet  alone  in  the  open  field — for  one 
who  could  make  him  in  a  crowd  a  mere  string  of  many 
to  his  harp. 

The  morning  so  long  awaited  came  on  a  second 
Sunday  after  Trinity.  Cyrus  Browett,  in  whose  keep 
ing  was  the  very  ark  of  the  money  covenant,  alighted 
from  his  coupe  under  the  porte-cochere  of  candied 
Gothic  and  humbly  took  seat  in  his  pew  like  a  mere 
worshipper  of  God. 

As  such — a  man  among  men — the  young  rector 
looked  calmly  down  upon  him,  letting  him  sink  into 
the  crowd-entity  which  always  became  subject  to  him. 

His  rare,  vibrant  tones — tones  that  somehow  carried 
the  subdued  light  and  warmth  of  stained  glass — rolled 
out  in  moving  volume: 

"The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple:  let  all  the  earth 
keep  silence  before  him." 

Then,  still  as  a  mere  worshipper  of  God,  that  Prince 
of  the  power  of  Mammon  down  in  front  knelt  humbly 
to  say  after  the  young  rector  above  him  that  he  had 
erred  and  strayed  like  a  lost  sheep,  followed  too  much 
the  devices  of  his  own  heart,  leaving  undone  those 
things  he  ought  to  have  done,  and  doing  those  things 
which  he  ought  not  to  have  done;  that  there  was  no 
health  in  him;  yet  praying  that  he  might,  thereafter, 
lead  a  godly,  righteous  and  sober  life  to  the  glory  of 
God's  holy  name.  Even  to  Allan  there  was  something 
affecting  in  this — a  sort  of  sardonic  absurdity  in 
Browett's  actually  speaking  thus. 

The  kneeling  financier  was  indeed  a  gracious  arid 
lovely  spectacle  to  the  young  clergyman,  and  in  his 
next  words,  above  the  still-bended  congregation,  his 
tones  grew  warmly  moist  with  an  unction  that  thrilled 


THE  WINNING  OF  BROWETT         191 

his  hearers  as  never  before.  Movingly,  indeed,  upon 
the  authority  that  God  hath  given  to  his  ministers,  did 
he  declare  and  pronounce  to  his  people,  being  penitent, 
the  absolution  and  remission  of  their  sins.  Wonderful, 
in  truth,  had  it  been  if  his  hearers  did  not  thrill,  for  the 
minister  himself  was  thrilled  as  never  before.  He, 
Allan  Delcher  Linford,  was  absolving  and  remitting 
the  sins  of  a  man  whose  millions  were  counted  by  the 
hundred,  a  god  of  money  and  of  power — who  yet 
cringed  before  him  out  there  like  one  who  feared  and 
worshipped. 

Nor  did  he  here  make  the  mistake  that  many  another 
would  have  made.  Instead  of  preaching  to  Cyrus 
Browett  alone — preaching  at  him — he  preached  as 
usual  to  his  congregation.  If  his  glance  fell,  now  and 
then,  upon  the  face  of  Browett,  he  saw  it  only  through 
the  haze  of  his  own  fervour — a  patch  of  granite-gray 
holding  two  pricking  points  of  light.  Not  once  was 
Browett  permitted  to  feel  himself  more  than  one  of  a 
crowd ;  not  once  Tas  he  permitted  to  rise  above  his  mere 
atomship,  nor  feel  that  he  received  more  attention  than 
the  humblest  worshipper  in  arrears  for  pew-rent.  Yet, 
though  the  young  rector  regarded  Browett  as  but 
one  of  many,  he  knew  infallibly  the  instant  that  invisible 
wire  was  strung  between  them,  and  felt,  thereafter, 
every  tug  of  opposition  or  signal  of  agreement  that 
flashed  from  Browett's  mind,  knowing  in  the  end, 
without  a  look,  that  he  had  won  Browett's  approval 
and  even  excited  his  interest. 

For  the  sermon  had  been  strangely,  wonderfully 
suited  to  Browett's  peculiar  tastes.  Hardly  could  a 
sermon  have  been  better  planned  to  win  him.  The 
choice  of  the  text  itself:  "And  thou  shalt  take  no  gift; 


192  THE  SEEKER 

for  the  gift  blindeth  the  wise  and  perverteth  the  words 
of  the  righteous,"  was  perfect  art. 

The  plea  was  for  intellectual  honesty,  for  academic 
freedom,  for  fearless  independence,  which  were  said 
to  be  the  crowning  glories  in  the  diadem  of  man's 
attributes.  Fearlessly,  then,  did  the  speaker  depre 
ciate  both  the  dogmatism  of  religion  and  the  dogmatism 
of  science.  "Much  of  what  we  call  religion,"  he  said, 
"is  only  the  superstition  of  the  past;  much  of  what  we 
call  science  is  but  the  superstition  of  the  present."  He 
pleaded  that  religion  might  be  an  ever-living  growth 
in  the  human  heart,  not  a  dead  formulary  of  dogmatic 
origin.  True,  organisation  was  necessary,  but  in  the 
realm  of  spiritual  essentials  a  creed  drawn  up  in  the 
fourth  century  should  not  be  treated  as  if  it  were  the 
final  expression  of  the  religious  consciousness  in  secula 
seculorum.  One  should,  indeed,  be  prepared  for  the 
perpetual  restatement  of  religious  truth,  fearlessly 
submitting  the  most  cherished  convictions  to  the  light 
of  each  succeeding  age. 

Yet,  especially,  should  it  not  be  forgotten  in  an  age  of 
ultra-physicism,  of  social  and  economic  heterodoxies, 
that  there  must  ever  be  in  human  society,  according  to 
the  blessed  ordinance  of  God,  princes  and  subjects, 
masters  and  proletariat,  rich  and  poor,  learned  and 
ignorant,  nobles  and  plebeians — yet  all  united  in  the 
bonds  of  love  to  help  one  another  attain  their  moral 
welfare  on  earth  and  their  last  end  in  heaven; — all 
united  in  the  bonds  of  fraternal  good-will,  independent 
yet  acknowledging  the  sovereignty  of  Omnipotence. 

He  closed  with  these  words  of  Voltaire:  "We  must 
love  our  country  whatever  injustice  we  suffer  in  it,  as 
we  must  love  and  serve  the  Supreme  Being,  notwith- 


THE  WINNING  OF  BROWETT         193 

standing  the  superstitions  and  fanaticism  which  so 
often  dishonour  His  worship." 

The  sermon  was  no  marked  achievement  in  coher 
ence,  but  neither  was  Browett  a  coherent  personality. 
It  was,  however,  a  swift,  vivid  sermon — a  short  and  a 
busy  one,  with  a  reason  for  each  of  its  parts,  incoherent 
though  the  parts  were.  For  Browett  was  a  cynic 
doubter  of  his  own  faith;  at  once  an  admirer  of  Vol 
taire  and  a  believer  in  the  Established  Order  of  Things; 
despising  a  radical  and  a  conservative  equally,  but, 
hating  more  than  either,  a  clumsy  compromiser.  He 
must  be  preached  to  as  one  not  yet  brought  into  that 
flock  purchased  by  God  with  the  blood  of  His  Son; 
and  at  the  same  time,  as  one  who  had  always  been  of 
that  flock  and  was  now  inalienable  from  it.  In  a  word, 
Browett's  doubt  and  his  belief  had  both  to  be  fed  from 
the  same  spoon,  a  fact  that  all  young  preachers  of  God's 
word  would  not  have  fathomed. 

Thus  our  young  rector  proved  his  power.  His  future 
rolled  visibly  toward  him.  During  the  rest  of  that 
service  there  sounded  in  his  ears  an  undertone  from 
out  the  golden  centre  of  that  future:  "Reverend  Father 
in  God,  we  present  unto  you  this  godly  and  well-learned 
man  to  be  ordained  and  consecrated  Bishop " 

Rewarded,  indeed,  was  he  for  the  trouble  he  had 
taken  long  months  before  to  build  that  particular  ser 
mon  to  fit  Browett,  after  specifications  confided  to  him 
by  an  obliging  parishioner — keeping  it  ready  to  use  at 
a  second's  notice,  on  the  first  morning  that  Browett 
should  appear. 

How  diminished  would  be  that  envious  railing  at 
Success  could  we  but  know  the  hidden  pains  by  which 
alone  its  victories  of  seeming  ease  are  won! 


194  THE  SEEKER 

The  young  minister  could  now  meet  Browett  as  man 
to  man,  having  established  a  prestige. 

It  had  been  said  by  those  who  would  fain  have 
branded  him  with  the  stigma  of  disrepute  that  Browett's 
ethics  were  inferior  to  those  of  the  prairie  wolf;  meaning, 
perhaps,  that  he  might  kill  more  sheep  than  he  could 
possibly  devour. 

Browett  had  views  of  his  own  in  this  matter.  As  a 
tentative  evolutionist  he  looked  upon  his  survival  as 
unimpeachable  evidence  of  his  fitness, — as  the  eagle  is 
fitter  than  the  lamb  it  may  fasten  upon.  Again,  as  a 
believer  in  Revealed  Religion,  he  accepted  human 
society  according  to  the  ordinance  of  God,  deeming 
himself  as  Master  to  be  but  the  rightful,  divinely- 
instituted  complement  of  his  humblest  servant — the 
two  of  them  necessary  poles  in  the  world  spiritual. 

One  of  the  few  fads  of  Browett  being  the  memorial 
window,  it  was  also  said  by  enviers  that  if  he  would 
begin  to  erect  a  window  to  every  small  competitor  his 
Trust  had  squeezed  to  death  there  would  be  an  unprece 
dented  flurry  in  stained  glass.  But  Browett  knew, 
as  an  evolutionist,  that  the  eagle  has  a  divine  right  to 
the  lamb  if  it  can  come  safely  off  with  it;  as  a  Christian, 
that  one  carries  out  the  will  of  God  as  indubitably  in 
preserving  the  established  order  of  prince  and  subject, 
of  noble  and  plebeian,  as  in  giving  of  his  abundance  to 
relieve  the  necessitous — or  in  endowing  universities 
which  should  teach  the  perpetual  sacredness  of  the 
established  order  of  things  in  Church  and  State. 

In  short,  he  derived  comfort  from  both  poles  of  his 
belief — one  the  God  of  Moses,  a  somewhat  emotional 
god,  not  entirely  uncarnal — the  other  the  god  of  Spencer, 
an  unemotional  and  unimaginative  god  of  Law. 


THE  WINNING   OF  BROWETT         195 

It  followed  that  he  was  much  taken  with  a  preacher 
who  could  answer  so  appositely  to  the  needs  of  his  soul 
as  did  this  impressive  young  man  in  a  chance  sermon 
of  unstudied  eloquence. 

There  were  social  meetings  in  which  Browett  dis 
passionately  confirmed  these  early  impressions  gained 
under  the  spell  of  a  matchless  oratory,  and  in  due  time 
there  followed  an  invitation  to  the  young  rector  of 
St.  Anne's  of  Edom  to  preach  at  the  Church  of  St. 
Antipas,  which  was  Browett's  city  church. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  BELATED  MARTYRDOM 

THE  rectory  at  Edom  was  hot  with  the  fever  of  prepa 
ration.  The  invitation  to  preach  at  St.  Antipas 
meant  an  offer  of  that  parish  should  the  preaching  be 
approved.  It  was  a  most  desirable  parish — Browett's 
city  church  being  as  smart  as  one  of  his  steam  yachts 
or  his  private  train  (for  nothing  less  than  a  train  sufficed 
him  now — though  there  were  those  of  the  green  eyes 
who  pretended  to  remember,  with  heavy  sarcasm,  the 
humbler  day  when  he  had  but  a  beggarly  private 
car,  coupled  to  the  rear  of  a  common  Limited).  It 
was,  moreover,  a  high  church,  its  last  rector  having 
been  put  away  for  the  narrowness  of  refusing  to  "enrich 
the  service."  This  was  the  church  and  this  the  patron 
above  all  others  that  the  Reverend  Allan  Delcher 
Linford  would  have  chosen,  and  earnestly  did  he  pray 
that  God  in  His  wisdom  impart  to  him  the  grace  to 
please  Browett  and  those  whom  Browett  permitted  to 
have  a  nominal  voice  in  the  control  of  St.  Antipas. 

Both  Aunt  Bell  and  Nancy  came  to  feel  the  strain  of 
it  all.  The  former  promised  to  "go  into  the  silence" 
each  day  and  "hold  the  thought  of  success,"  thereby 
drawing  psychic  power  for  him  from  the  Reservoir  of 
the  Eternal. 

Nancy  could  only  encourage  by  wifely  sympathy, 
being  devoid  of  those  psychic  powers  that  distinguished 

196 


A  BELATED  MARTYRDOM  197 

Aunt  Bell.  Tenderly  she  hovered  about  Allan  the 
morning  he  began  to  write  the  first  of  the  three  ser 
mons  he  was  to  preach. 

As  for  him,  though  heavy  with  the  possibilities  of 
the  moment,  he  was  yet  cool  and  centred;  resigned  to 
what  might  be,  yet  hopeful;  his  manner  was  determined, 
yet  gentle,  almost  sweet — the  manner  of  one  who  has 
committed  all  to  God  and  will  now  put  no  cup  from 
him,  how  bitter  soever. 

"I  am  so  hopeful,  dearest,  for  your  sake,"  his  wife 
said,  softly,  wishing  to  reveal  her  sympathy  yet  fearful 
lest  she  might  obtrude  it.  He  was  arranging  many 
sheets  of  notes  before  him. 

"What  will  the  first  one  be?"  she  asked.  He 
straightened  in  his  chair. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind,  Nance!  It's  a  wealthy 
congregation — one  of  the  wealthiest  in  the  city — but 
I  shall  preach  first  from  the  parable  of  Dives  and 
Lazarus." 

"Isn't  that — a  little — wouldn't  something  else  do  as 
well — something  that  wouldn't  seem  quite  so  personal  ?" 

He  smiled  up  with  fond  indulgence.  "That's  the 
woman  of  it — concession  for  temporal  advantage." 
Then  more  seriously  he  added,  "I  wouldn't  be  true  to 
myself,  Nance,  if  I  went  down  there  in  any  spirit  of 
truckling  to  wealth.  Public  approval  is  a  most  desira 
ble  luxury,  I  grant  you — wealth  and  ease  are  desirable 
luxuries,  and  the  favour  of  those  in  power — but  they're 
only  luxuries.  And  I  know  in  this  matter  but  one  real 
necessity:  my  own  self-approval.  If  consciously  I 
preached  a  polite  sermon  there,  my  own  soul  would 
accuse  me  and  I  should  be  as  a  leaf  in  the  wind  for 
power.  No,  Nance — never  urge  me  to  be  untrue  to 


198  THE  SEEKER 

that  divine  Christ-self  within  me!  If  I  cannot  be  my 
best  self  before  God,  I  am  nothing.  I  must  preach 
Christ  and  Him  crucified,  whether  it  be  to  the  wealthy 
of  St.  Antipas  or  only  to  believing  poverty." 

Stung  with  contrition,  she  was  quick  to  say,  "Oh, 
my  dearest,  I  didn't  mean  you  to  be  untrue!  Only  it 
seemed  unnecessary  to  affront  them  in  your  very  first 
sermon." 

"I  have  been  divinely  guided,  Nance.  No  considera 
tions  of  expediency  can  deflect  me  now.  This  had  to  be ! 
I  admit  that  I  had  my  hour  of  temptation — but  that 
has  gone,  and  thank  God  my  integrity  survives  it." 

"Oh,  how  much  bigger  you  are  than  I  am,  dearest!" 
She  looked  down  at  him  proudly  as  she  stood  close  to 
his  side,  smoothing  the  tawny  hair.  Then  she  laid  one 
finger  along  his  lips  and  made  the  least  little  kissing 
noise  with  her  own  lips — a  trick  of  affection  learned  in 
the  early  days  of  their  love.  After  a  little  she  stole  from 
his  side,  leaving  him  with  head  bent  in  prayerful  study 
— to  be  herself  alone  with  her  new  assurance. 

It  was  moments  like  this  that  she  had  come  to  long 
for  and  to  feed  her  love  upon.  Nor  need  it  be  con 
cealed  that  there  had  not  been  one  such  for  many 
months.  The  situation  had  been  graver  than  she 
was  willing  to  acknowledge  to  herself.  Not  only  had 
she  not  ceased  to  wonder  since  the  first  days  of  her  mar 
riage,  but  she  had  begun  to  smile  in  her  wonder,  fancy 
ing  from  time  to  time  that  certain  plain  answers  came 
to  it — and  not  at  all  realising  that  a  certain  kind  of 
smile  is  love's  unforgivable  blasphemy;  conscious  only 
that  the  smile  left  a  strange  hurt  in  her  heart. 

For  a  little  hour  she  stayed  alone  with  her  joy,  fondly 
turning  the  light  of  her  newly  fed  faith  upon  an  idol 


A  BELATED  MARTYRDOM  199 

whose  clearness  of  line  and  purity  of  tint  had  become 
blurred  in  a  dusk  of  wondering — an  idol  that  had  begun, 
she  now  realised  with  a  shudder,  to  bulk  almost  gro 
tesquely  through  that  deepening  gloom  of  doubt. 

Now  all  was  well  again.  In  this  new  light  the  dear 
idol  might  even  at  times  show  a  dual  personality — one 
kneeling  beside  her  very  earnestly  to  worship  the  other 
with  her.  Why  not,  since  the  other  showed  itself  truly 
worthy  of  adoration?  With  faith  made  new  in  her 
husband — and,  therefore,  in  God — she  went  to  Aunt 
Bell. 

She  found  that  lady  in  touch  with  the  cosmic  forces, 
over  her  book,  "The  Beautiful  Within/'  her  particular 
chapter  being  headed,  "  Psychology  of  Rest :  Rhythms 
and  Sub-rhythms  of  Activity  and  Repose;  their  Syn 
chronism  with  Subliminal  Spontaneity."  Over  this 
frank  revelation  of  hidden  truths  Aunt  Bell's  handsome 
head  was,  for  the  moment,  nodding  in  sub-rhythms  of 
psychic  placidity — a  state  from  which  Nancy's  animated 
entrance  sufficed  to  arouse  her.  As  the  proud  wife 
spoke,  she  divested  herself  of  the  psychic  restraint  with 
something  very  like  a  carnal  yawn  behind  her  book. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Bell!  Isn't  Allan  fine!  Of  course,  in  a 
way,  it's  too  bad — doubtless  he'll  spoil  his  chances  for 
the  thing  I  know  he's  set  his  heart  upon — and  he  knows 
it,  too — but  he's  going  calmly  ahead  as  if  the  day  for 
martyrs  to  the  truth  hadn't  long  since  gone  by.  Oh, 
dear,  martyrs  are  so  dowdy  and  out-of-date — but  there 
he  is,  a  great,  noble,  beautiful  soul,  with  a  sense  of 
integrity  and  independence  that  is  stunning!" 

"What  has  Allan  been  saying  now?"  asked  Aunt 
Bell,  curiously  unmoved. 

"  Said  f    It's  what  he's  doing  !    The  dear,  big,  stupid 


200  THE  SEEKER 

thing  is  going  down  there  to  preach  the  very  first  Sun 
day  about  Dives  and  Lazarus — the  poor  beggar  in 
Abraham's  bosom  and  the  rich  man  down  below,  you 
remember?"  she  added,  as  Aunt  Bell  seemed  still  to 
hover  about  the  centre  of  psychic  repose. 

"Well?" 

"Well,  think  of  preaching  that  primitive  doctrine  to 
any  one  in  this  age — then  think  of  a  young  minister 
talking  it  to  a  church  of  rich  men  and  expecting  to 
receive  a  call  from  them!" 

Aunt  Bell  surveyed  the  plump  and  dimpled  white 
ness  of  her  small  hands  with  more  than  her  usual 
studious  complacence.  "My  dear,"  she  said  at  last, 
"no  one  has  a  greater  admiration  for  Allan  than  I  have 
— but  I've  observed  that  he  usually  knows  what  he's 
about." 

"Indeed,  he  knows  what  he's  about  now,  Aunt  Bell!" 
There  was  a  swift  little  warmth  in  her  tones — "but  he 
says  he  can't  do  otherwise.  lie's  going  deliberately  to 
spoil  his  chances  for  a  call  to  St.  Antipas  by  a  piece  of 
mere  early-Christian  quixotism.  And  you  must  see 
how  great  he  is,  Aunt  Bell.  Do  you  know — there  have 
been  times  when  I've  misjudged  Allan.  I  didn't  know 
his  simple  genuineness.  He  wants  that  church,  yet  he 
will  not,  as  so  many  in  his  place  would  do,  make  the 
least  concession  to  its  people." 

Aunt  Bell  now  brought  a  coldly  critical  scrutiny  to 
bear  upon  one  small  foot  which  she  thrust  absently  out 
until  its  profile  could  be  seen. 

"Perhaps  he  will  have  his  reward,"  she  said.  "Al 
though  it  is  many  years  since  I  broadened  into  what  Imay 
call  the  higher  unbelief,  I  have  never  once  suspected, 
my  dear,  that  merit  fails  of  its  reward.  And  above  all, 


A  BELATED  MARTYRDOM  201 

I  have  faith  in  Allan,  in  his — well,  his  psychic  nature  is 
so  perfectly  attuned  with  the  Universal  that  Allan  sim 
ply  cannot  harm  himself.  Even  when  he  seems  deliber 
ately  to  invite  misfortune,  fortune  comes  instead.  So 
cheer  up,  and  above  all,  practise  going  into  the  silence 
and  holding  the  thought  of  success  for  him.  I  think 
Allan  will  attend  very  acceptably  to  the  mere  details." 


CHAPTER   VI 
THE  WALLS  OF  ST.  ANTIPAS  FALL  AT  THE  THIRD  BLAST 

ON  that  dreaded  morning  a  few  weeks  later,  when 
the  young  minister  faced  a  thronged  St.  Antipas  at 
eleven  o'clock  service,  his  wife  looked  up  at  him  from 
Aunt  Bell's  side  in  a  pew  well  forward — the  pew  of 
Cyrus  Browett — looked  up  at  him  in  trembling,  loving 
wonder.  Then  a  little  tender  half-smile  of  perfect 
faith  went  dreaming  along  her  just-parted  lips.  Let 
the  many  prototypes  of  Dives  in  St.  Antipas — she  could 
see  the  relentless  profile  of  their  chief  at  her  right — be 
offended  by  his  rugged  speech:  he  should  find  atoning 
comfort  in  her  new  love.  Like  Luther,  he  must  stand 
there  to  say  out  the  soul  of  him,  and  she  was  prostrate 
before  his  brave  greatness. 

When,  at  last,  he  came  to  read  the  biting  verses  of  the 
parable,  her  heart  beat  as  if  it  would  be  out  to  him,  her 
face  paled  and  hardened  with  the  strain  of  his  ordeal. 

"And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  beggar  died  and  was  carried 
by  the  angels  into  Abraham's  bosom;  the  rich  man  also 
died  and  was  buried. 

"And  in  hell  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  being  in  torments,  and 
seeth  Abraham  afar  off  and  Lazarus  in  his  bosom. 

"And  he  cried  and  said,  'Father  Abraham,  have  mercy  on 
me  and  send  Lazarus  that  he  may  dip  the  tip  of  his  finger  in 
water  and  cool  my  tongue;  for  I  am  tormented  in  this  flame.' 

"But  Abraham  said,  'Son,  remember  that  thou  in  thy 

202 


THE  WALLS  OF  ST.   ANTIPAS  FALL    203 

lifetime  receivedst  thy  good  things,  and  likewise  Lazarus 
evil  things;  but  now  he  is  comforted  and  thou  art  tor 
mented.'" 

The  sermon  began.  Unflinchingly  the  preacher 
pointed  out  that  Dives,  apparently,  lay  in  hell  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  he  had  been  a  rich  man ;  no  sin 
was  imputed  to  him ;  not  even  unbelief ;  he  had  not  only 
transgressed  no  law,  but  was  doubtless  a  respectable, 
God-fearing  man  of  irreproachable  morals — sent  to 
hell  for  his  wealth. 

And  Lazarus  appeared  to  have  won  heaven  merely 
by  reason  of  his  poverty.  No  virtue,  no  active  good 
conduct,  was  accredited  to  him. 

Reading  with  the  eye  of  common  understanding, 
Jesus  taught  that  the  rich  merited  eternal  torment  by 
reason  of  their  riches,  and  the  poor  merited  eternal  life 
by  reason  of  their  poverty,  a  belief  that  one  might  hear 
declared  even  to-day.  Nor  was  this  view  attested  solely 
by  this  parable.  Jesus  railed  constantly  at  those  in  high 
places,  at  the  rich  and  at  lawyers,  and  the  chief  priests 
and  elders  and  those  in  authority — declaring  that  he 
had  been  sent,  not  to  them,  but  to  the  poor  who  needed 
a  physician. 

But  was  there  not  a  seeming  inconsistency  here  in  the 
teachings  of  the  Master  ?  If  the  poor  achieved  heaven 
automatically  by  their  mere  poverty,  why  were  they 
still  needing  a  physician?  Under  that  view,  why  were 
not  the  rich  those  who  needed  a  physician — according 
to  the  literal  words  of  Jesus  ? 

Up  to  the  close  of  this  passage  the  orator's  manner 
had  been  one  of  glacial  severity — of  a  sternness  appar 
ently  checked  by  rare  self-control  from  breaking  into  a 
denunciation  of  the  modern  Dives.  Then  all  was 


204  THE  SEEKER 

changed.  His  face  softened  and  lighted;  the  broad 
shoulders  seemed  to  relax  from  their  uncompromising 
squareness;  he  stood  more  easily  upon  his  feet;  he 
glowed  with  a  certain  encouraging  companionableness. 

Was  that,  indeed,  the  teaching  of  Jesus — as  if  in 
New  York  to-day  he  might  say,  "  I  have  come  to  Third 
Avenue  rather  than  to  Fifth?"  Can  this  crudely 
literal  reading  of  his  words  prevail  ?  Does  it  not  carry 
its  own  refutation — the  extreme  absurdity  of  supposing 
that  Jesus  would  come  to  the  squalid  Jews  of  the  East 
Side  and  denounce  the  better  elements  that  maintain  a 
church  like  St.  Antipas? 

The  fallacy  were  easily  probed.  A  modern  intelli 
gence  can  scarcely  prefigure  heaven  or  hell  as  a  reward 
or  punishment  for  mere  carnal  comfort  or  discomfort 
— as  many  literal-minded  persons  believe  that  Jesus 
taught.  The  Son  of  Man  was  too  subtle  a  philosopher 
to  teach  that  a  rich  man  is  lost  by  his  wealth  and  a  poor 
man  saved  by  his  poverty,  though  primitive  minds  took 
this  to  be  his  meaning.  Some  primitive  minds  still 
believe  this — witness  the  frequent  attempts  to  read  a 
literal  meaning  into  certain  other  words  of  Jesus:  the 
command,  for  example,  that  a  man  should  give  up  his 
cloak  also,  if  he  be  sued  for  his  coat.  Little  acumen  is 
required  to  see  that  no  society  could  protect  itself  against 
the  depredations  of  the  lawless  under  such  a  system  of 
non-resistance;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  Jesus  had  no 
intention  of  tearing  down  the  social  structure  or  destroy 
ing  vested  rights.  Those  who  demand  a  literal  con 
struction  of  the  parable  of  Dives  and  Lazarus  must 
look  for  it  in  the  Bowery  melodrama,  wherein 
the  wealthy  only  are  vicious  and  poverty  alone 
is  virtuous. 


THE  WALLS  OF  ST.   ANTIPAS  FALL    205 

We  have  only  to  consider  the  rawness  of  this  concep 
tion  to  perceive  that  Jesus  is  not  to  be  taken  literally. 

Who,  then,  is  the  rich  man  and  who  the  poor — who  is 
the  Dives  and  who  the  Lazarus  of  this  intensely  dra 
matic  parable? 

Dives  is  but  the  type  of  the  spiritually  rich  man  who 
has  not  charity  for  his  spiritually  poor  brother;  of  the 
man  rich  in  faith  who  will  not  trouble  to  counsel  the 
doubting;  of  the  one  rich  in  humility  who  will  yet  not 
seek  to  save  his  neighbour  from  arrogance;  of  him 
rich  in  charity  who  indifferently  views  his  uncharitable 
brethren;  of  the  man  rich  in  hope  who  will  not  strive 
to  make  hopeful  the  despairing;  of  the  one  rich  in 
graces  of  the  Holy  Ghost  who  will  not  seek  to  reclaim 
the  unsanctified  beggar  at  his  gate. 

And  who  is  Lazarus  but  a  type  of  the  aspiring — the 
soul-hungry,  whether  he  be  a  millionaire  or  a  poor  clerk 
— the  determined  seeker  whose  eye  is  single  and  whose 
whole  body  is  full  of  light  ?  In  this  view,  surely  more 
creditable  to  the  intellect  of  our  Saviour,  mere  material 
wealth  ceases  to  signify;  the  Dives  of  spiritual  reality 
may  be  the  actual  beggar  rich  in  faith  yet  indifferent 
to  the  soul-hunger  of  the  faithless;  while  poor  Lazarus 
may  be  the  millionaire,  thirsting,  hungering,  aspiring, 
day  after  day,  for  crumbs  of  spiritual  comfort  that  the 
beggar,  out  of  the  abundance  of  his  faith,  would  never 
miss. 

Christianity  has  suffered  much  from  our  failure  to 
give  the  Saviour  due  credit  for  subtlety.  So  far  as 
money — mere  wealth — is  a  soul-factor  at  all,  it  must  be 
held  to  increase  rather  than  to  diminish  its  possessor's 
chances  of  salvation,  but  not  in  merely  providing  the 
refinements  of  culture  and  the  elegances  of  modern 


206  THE  SEEKER 

luxury  and  good  taste,  important  though  these  are  to 
the  spirit's  growth.  The  true  value  of  wealth  to  the 
soul — a  value  difficult  to  over-estimate — is  that  it  pro 
vides  opportunity  for,  and  encourages  the  cultivation 
of,  that  virtue  which  is  "the  greatest  of  all  these";  that 
virtue  which  "suffereth  long  and  is  kind;  which  vaunt- 
eth  not  itself  and  is  not  puffed  up" — Charity,  in  short. 
While  not  denying  the  simple  joys  of  penury,  nor  forget 
ting  the  Saviour's  promises  to  the  poor  and  meek  and 
lowly,  it  is  still  easy  to  understand  that  charity  is  less 
likely  to  be  a  vigorous  soul-growth  in  a  poor  man  than 
in  a  rich.  The  poor  man  may  possess  it  as  a  germ,  a 
seed;  but  the  rich  man  is,  through  superior  prowess  in 
the  struggle  for  existence,  in  a  position  to  cultivate  this 
virtue;  and  who  will  say  that  he  has  not  cultivated  it? 
Certainly  no  one  acquainted  with  the  efforts  of  our 
wealthy  men  to  uplift  the  worthy  poor.  A  certain 
modern  sentimentality  demands  that  poverty  be  abol 
ished — ignoring  those  pregnant  words  of  Jesus — "the 
poor  ye  have  always  with  you" — forgetting,  indeed, 
that  human  society  is  composed  of  unequal  parts,  even 
as  the  human  body;  that  equality  exists  among  the 
social  members  only  in  this:  that  all  men  have  their 
origin  in  God  the  Creator,  have  sinned  in  Adam,  and 
have  been,  by  the  sacrificial  blood  of  God's  only  begot 
ten  Son,  born  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  equally  redeemed  into 
eternal  life,  if  they  will  but  accept  Christ  as  their  only 
true  Saviour; — forgetting  indeed  that  to  abolish  poverty 
would  at  once  prevent  all  manifestations  of  human 
nature's  most  beauteous  trait  and  virtue — Charity. 

Present  echoes  from  the  business  world  indicate  that 
the  poor  man  to-day,  with  his  vicious  discontent,  his 
preposterous  hopes  of  trades-unionism,  and  his  imprac- 


THE  WALLS  OF  ST.  ANTIPAS  FALL    207 

ticable  and  very  un-Christian  dreams  of  an  industrial 
millennium,  is  the  true  and  veritable  Dives,  rich  in  arro 
gance  and  poor  in  that  charity  of  judgment  which  the 
millionaire  has  so  abundantly  shown  himself  to  possess. 

The  remedy  was  for  the  world  to  come  up  higher. 
Standing  upon  one  of  the  grand  old  peaks  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  the  speaker  had  once  witnessed  a  scene  in 
the  valley  below  which,  for  beauty  of  illustration  of  the 
thought  in  hand,  the  world  could  not  surpass.  He  told 
his  hearers  what  the  scene  was.  And  he  besought 
them  to  come  up  to  the  rock  of  Charity  and  mingle  in 
the  blue  serene.  Charity — a  tear  dropped  on  the  world's 
cold  cheek  of  intolerance  to  make  it  burn  forever!  Or 
it  was  the  grand  motor-power  which,  like  a  giant  engine, 
has  rolled  the  car  of  civilisation  out  from  the  maze  of 
antiquity  into  the  light  of  the  present  day  where  it  now 
waits  to  be  freighted  with  the  precious  fruits  of  living 
genius,  then  to  speed  on  to  that  hoped-for  golden  era 
when  truth  shall  rise  as  a  new  and  blazing  star  to  light 
the  splendid  pageantry  of  earth,  bound  together  in 
one  law  of  universal  brotherhood,  independent,  yet 
acknowledging  the  sovereignty  of  Omnipotence.  Char 
ity  indeed  was  what  Voltaire  meant  to  inculcate  when 
he  declared:  " Atheism  and  fanaticism  are  the  two  poles 
of  a  universe  of  confusion  and  horror.  The  narrow 
zone  of  virtue  is  between  these  two.  March  with  a 
firm  step  in  that  path;  believe  in  a  good  God  and  do 
good." 

The  peroration  was  beautifully  simple,  thrilling  the 
vast  throng  with  a  sudden  deeper  conviction  of  the 
speaker's  earnestness :  "  Charity!  Oh,  of  all  the  flowers 
that  have  swung  their  golden  censers  in  the  parterre  of 
the  human  heart,  none  so  rich,  so  rare  as  this  one  flower 


208  THE   SEEKER 

of  charity.  Other  flowers  there  may  be  that  yield  as 
rich  perfume,  but  they  must  be  crushed  before  their 
fragrance  becomes  perceptible;  but  this  flower  at  early 
morn,  at  burning  noon  and  when  the  dew  of  eve  is  on 
the  flowers,  has  coursed  its  way  down  the  garden  walk, 
out  through  the  deep,  dark  dell,  over  the  burning  plain, 
and  up  the  mountain  side — up,  ever  UP  it  rises  into  the 
beautiful  blue — up  along  the  cloudy  corridors  of  the 
day,  up  along  the  misty  pathway  to  the  skies  till  it 
touches  the  beautiful  shore  and  mingles  with  the  breath 
of  angels." 

Hardly  was  there  a  dissenting  voice  in  all  St.  Antipas 
that  Sabbath  upon  the  proposal  that  this  powerful 
young  preacher  be  called  to  its  pulpit.  The  few  who 
warily  suggested  that  he  might  be  too  visionary,  not 
sufficiently  in  touch  with  the  present  day,  were  quieted 
the  following  Sabbath  by  a  very  different  sermon  on 
certain  flaws  in  the  fashionable  drama. 

The  one  and  only  possible  immorality  in  this  world, 
contended  the  speaker,  was  untruth.  A  sermon  was 
as  immoral  as  any  stage  play  if  the  soul  of  it  was  not 
Truth;  and  a  stage  play  became  as  moral  as  a  sermon 
if  its  soul  was  truth.  The  special  form  of  untruth  he 
attacked  was  what  he  styled  "the  drama  of  the  glorified 
wanton."  Warmly  and  ably  did  he  denounce  the  per 
nicious  effect  of  those  plays  that  take  the  wanton  for 
a  heroine  and  sentimentalise  her  into  a  morbid  attrac 
tiveness.  The  stage  should  show  life,  and  the  wanton, 
being  of  life,  might  be  portrayed;  but  let  it  be  with 
ruthless  fidelity.  She  must  not  be  falsified  into  a 
creature  of  fine  sensibilities  and  lofty  emotions — a 
thing  of  dangerous  plausibility  to  the  innocent. 

The  last  doubter  succumbed  on  the  third  Sabbath, 


THE  WALLS  OF  ST.   ANTIPAS  FALL    209 

when  he  preached  from  the  warning  of  Jesus  that 
many  would  come  after  him,  performing  in  his  name 
wonders  that  might  deceive,  were  it  possible,  even  the 
very  elect.  The  sermon  likened  this  generation  to 
the  people  Paul  found  in  Athens,  running  curiously 
after  any  new  god;  after  Christian  Science — which  he 
took  the  liberty  of  remarking  was  neither  Christian  nor 
scientific — or  mental  science,  spiritism,  theosophy, 
clairvoyance,  all  black  arts,  straying  from  the  fold  of 
truth  into  outer  darkness — forgetting  that  "  God  so 
loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his  only  begotten  Son,  that 
whosoever  believed  therein  might  not  perish,  but  have 
everlasting  life."  As  this  was  the  sole  means  of  salva 
tion  that  God  had  provided,  the  time  was,  obviously, 
one  fraught  with  vital  interest  to  every  thinking  man. 

As  a  sagacious  member  of  the  Board  of  Trustees 
remarked,  it  would  hardly  have  been  possible  to  preach 
three  sermons  better  calculated,  each  in  its  way,  to 
win  the  approval  of  St.  Antipas. 

The  call  came  and  was  accepted  after  the  signs  of 
due  and  prayerful  consideration.  But  as  for  Nancy, 
she  had  left  off  certain  of  her  wonderings  forever. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THERE  ENTERETH  THE  SERPENT  OF  INAPPRECIATION 

FOR  the  young  rector  of  St.  Antipas  there  followed 
swift,  rich,  high-coloured  days — days  in  which  he 
might  have  framed  more  than  one  triumphant  reply 
to  that  poet  who  questioned  why  the  spirit  of  mortal 
should  be  proud,  intimating  that  it  should  not  be. 

Also  was  the  handsome  young  rector's  parish  proud 
of  him;  proud  of  his  executive  ability  as  shown  in  the 
management  of  its  many  organised  activities,  religious 
and  secular;  its  Brotherhood  of  St.  Bartholomew,  its 
Men's  Club,  Women's  Missionary  Association,  Guild 
and  Visiting  Society,  King's  Daughters,  Sewing  School, 
Poor  Fund,  and  still  others;  proud  of  his  decorative 
personality,  his  impressive  oratory  and  the  modern  note 
in  his  preaching;  proud  that  its  ushers  must  each  Sab 
bath  morning  turn  away  many  late-comers.  Indeed, 
the  whole  parish  had  been  born  to  a  new  spiritual  life 
since  that  day  when  the  worship  at  St.  Antipas  had 
been  kept  simple  to  bareness  by  a  stubborn  and  per 
verse  reactionary.  In  this  happier  day  St.  Antipas 
was  known  for  its  advanced  ritual,  for  a  service  so 
beautifully  enriched  that  a  new  spiritual  warmth  per 
vaded  the  entire  parish.  The  doctrine  of  the  Real 
Presence  was  not  timidly  minced,  but  preached  une 
quivocally,  with  dignified  boldness.  Also  there  was  a 
confessional,  and  the  gracious  burning  of  incense.  In 

210 


THE  SERPENT  OF  INAPPRECIATION    211 

short,  St.  Antipas  throve,  and  the  grace  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  palpably  took  possession  of  its  worshippers. 
The  church  was  become  the  smartest  church  in  the 
diocese,  and  its  communicants  were  held  to  have  a 
tone. 

And  to  these  communicants  their  rector  of  the  flaw 
less  pulchritude  was  a  gracious  spectacle,  not  only  in 
the  performance  of  his  sacerdotal  offices,  but  on  the 
thoroughfares  of  the  city,  where  his  distinction  was 
not  less  apparent  than  back  of  the  chancel  rail. 

A  certain  popular  avenue  runs  between  rows  of  once 
splendid  mansions  now  struggling  a  little  awkwardly 
into  trade  on  their  lowest  floors,  like  impoverished  but 
courageous  gentlefolk.  To  these  little  tragedies,  how 
ever,  the  pedestrian  throng  is  obtuse — blind  to  the 
pathos  of  those  still  haughty  upper  floors,  silent  and 
reserved,  behind  drawn  curtains,  while  the  lower  two 
floors  are  degraded  into  shops.  In  so  far  as  the  throng 
is  not  busied  with  itself,  its  attention  is  upon  the  road 
way,  where  is  ever  passing  a  festival  procession  of 
Success,  its  floats  of  Worth  Rewarded  being  the  costli 
est  and  shiniest  of  the  carriage-maker's  craft — eloquent 
of  true  dignity  and  fineness  even  in  the  swift  silence  of 
their  rubber  tires.  This  is  a  spectacle  to  be  viewed 
seriously;  to  be  mocked  at  only  by  the  flippant,  though 
the  moving  pedestrian  mass  on  the  sidewalk  is  gayer 
of  colour,  more  sentient — more  companionable,  more 
understandably  human. 

It  was  in  this  weaving  mass  on  the  walk  that  the 
communicants  of  St.  Antipas  were  often  refreshed  by 
the  vision  of  their  rector  on  pleasant  afternoons.  Here 
the  Reverend  Doctor  Linford  loved  to  walk  in  God's 
sunlight  out  of  sheer  simple  joy  in  living — happily 


212  THK   >.KKKKK 


by  any  possible  twiscioosness  thai  bis 
progress  turned  all  faces  to  regard  him,  as  inevitably 
a*  one  would  turn  the  spoke*  of  an  endless  succession 

of   turrit 

Hftbfted   rWl  an  ob/iou.Iy  loving  attention  to  detail, 

;,et  v.ifh  tasteful  restraint,  a  pwi.vr  and  frankly  con- 
teased,  yet  never  oh  bowing  with  a 

m;jnn«-r  to  those  of  hi-.  floek  f;j.vourf-rj  by  heaven  to 
ttn-ct.  him,  '.uj^-rhly,  rn;i-/-ij|infrly  tiaridsorm:,  he  was  far 
IDQrC  t}i;m  ;t  fri'-n-  ju  ,fifi'-;jtion  of  thf  prirJe  St.  Antipas 
t'  It  in  him.  Iff  was  a  .splf-ndid  in.->pir;ition  to  belief 
in  (  "»\  and  m;m. 

Nor  vv;i  ,  h»-  of  fii»-  f  ,p«-  Ph;ir;t  ;n'r:  —  the  type  to  profess 
low:  for  its  kin'l,  yd  '-)-  /TUf^ulously  aloof  from  the 
raaquifhed  ;in«l  fourt.  rnily  thf  viffor^.  Indeed,  this 
not.  .SO. 

In  I  he  full  tide  of  his  pro^n-ss  it  was  indeed  a 
pfOgV6MI  and  n«-ver  ;t  i\n-n-  v,;ill:  IK-  would  .^toj>  to 
;iddn-.-is  a.  IV  w  words  of  simple  c-liecr  to  the  a^ed  female 
MM  ii-li'  .int.  jierh;i.|>.s  to  make  a  joke  with  her  —  some 
j>|e;i  ,;inlry  not  unbefitting  his  station,  his  mien  denoting 
a  tender  chivalry  wlu'eh  has  Keen  agreeably  subdued 
ihou;di  not  impaired  }>y  tfie  experience  inevitable  to 
a.  man  of  the  world.  When  he  dropped  the  eoin  into 
I  he  \\ilhered  pa.lm,  he  did  it,  with  a  certain  lingering 
liiiiiic(|n(..ss,  as  one  frankly  unable  to  repress  a  human 
weakne;;,  i.hou^rh  nervously  striving  to  have  it  over 
quickly  and  by  stealth. 

Young  Higby  R(;eves,  generalising,  as  it  later  ap 
peared,  from  inadequate  data,  swore  once  that  the 
reeinr  of  Si.  Anfipas  kept,  always  an  eye  ahead  for  the 
female  mendicant  in  the  tattered  shawl  and  the  bonnet 
of  inferior  modislmess;  that,  if  the  Avenue  was  crowded 


THE  SERPENT  OF  ^APPRECIATION    213 

enough  to  make  it  seem  worth  while,  he  would  even 
cross  from  one  side  to  the  other  for  the  sake  of  speaking 
to  her  publicly. 

While  the  fact  so  declared  may  have  been  a  fact, 
the  young  man's  corollary  that  the  rector  of  St.  Antipas 
sought  this  experience  for  the  sake  of  its  mere  publicity 
came  from  a  prejudice  which  closer  acquaintance  with 
Dr.  Linford  happily  dissolved  from  his  mind.  As 
reasonably  might  he  have  averred,  as  did  another  cynic, 
that  the  rector  of  St.  Antipas  was  actuated  by  the  in 
stincts  of  a  mountebank  when  he  selected  his  evening 
papers  each  day — deliberately  and  with  kind  words — 
from  the  stock  of  a  newswoman  at  a  certain  conspicuous 
and  ever-crowded  crossing.  As  reasonable  was  the 
imputation  of  this  other  cynic,  that  in  greeting  friends 
upon  the  thronged  avenue,  the  rector  never  failed  to 
use  some  word  or  phrase  that  would  identify  him  to 
those  passing,  giving  the  person  addressed  an  unpleas 
ant  sense  of  being  placed  in  a  time-light,  yet  reducing 
him  to  an  insignificance  just  this  side  the  tine  of  obliter 
ation. 

"You  say,  'Ah,  Doctor!'  and  shake  hands,  you 
know,"  said  this  hypercritical  observer,  "and,  ten  to 
one,  he  says  something  about  St.  Antipas  directly,  you 
know,  or — *  Tell  him  to  call  on  Dr.  Linford  at  the  rectory 
adjoining  St.  Antipas — I'm  always  there  at  eleven,'  or 
'Yes,  quite  true,  the  bishop  said  to  me,  "My  dear  Lin 
ford,  we  depend  on  you  in  this  matter,"  '  or  telling  how 
Mrs.  General  Somebody-Something,  you  know — I 
never  could  remember  names — took  him  down  dread 
fully  by  calling  him  the  most  dangerously  fascinating 
man  in  New  York.  And  there  you  are,  you  know! 
It  never  fails,  on  my  word!  And  all  the  time  people 


214  THE  SEEKER 

are  passing  and  turning  to  stare  and  listen,  you  know, 
so  that  it's  quite  rowdy — saying '  Yes — that's  Linford — 
there  he  is, '  quite  as  if  they  were  on  one  of  those  coaches 
seeing  New  York;  and  you  feel,  by  Jove,  I  give  you  my 
word,  like  the  solemn  ass  who  goes  up  on  the  stage  to 
help  the  fellow  do  his  tricks,  you  know,  when  he  calls 
for  'some  kind  gentleman  from  the  audience. '" 

It  may  be  told  that  this  other  person  was  of  a  cyni 
cism  hopelessly  indurated.  Not  so  with  Rigby  Reeves, 
even  after  Reeves  alleged  the  other  discoveries  that 
the  rector  of  St.  Antipas  had  "a  walk  that  would  be  a 
strut,  by  gad!  if  he  was  as  short  as  I  am";  also  that  he 
"walked  like  a  parade,"  which,  as  expounded  by  Mr. 
Reeves,  meant  that  his  air  in  walking  was  that  of  one 
conscious  always  of  leading  a  triumphal  procession  in 
his  own  honour;  and  again,  that  one  might  read  in  his 
eyes  a  keenly  sensuous  enjoyment  in  the  tones  of  his 
own  voice;  that  he  coloured  these  with  a  certain  unction 
corresponding  to  the  flourishes  with  which  people  of  a 
certain  obliquity  of  mind  love  to  ornament  their  chirog- 
raphy;  still  again  that  he,  Reeves,  was  "ready  to  lay 
a  bet  that  the  fellow  would  continue  to  pose  even  at 
the  foot  of  the  Great  White  Throne." 

Happily  this  young  man  was  won  out  of  his  carping 
attitude  by  closer  acquaintance  with  the  rector  of  St. 
Antipas,  and  learned  to  regard  those  things  as  no  more 
than  the  inseparable  antennae  of  a  nature  unusually 
endowed  with  human  warmth  and  richness — mere 
meaningless  projections  from  a  personality  simple, 
rugged,  genuine,  never  subtle,  and  entirely  likable. 
He  came  to  feel  that,  while  the  rector  himself  was  unaf 
fectedly  impressed  by  that  profusion  of  gifts  with  which 
it  had  pleased  heaven  to  distinguish  him,  he  was  yet 


THE  SERPENT  OF  INAPPRECIATION    215 

constantly  annoyed  and  embarrassed  by  the  fact  that 
he  was  thus  made  so  salient  a  man.  Young  Reeves 
found  him  an  appreciative  person,  moreover,  one 
who  betrayed  a  sensible  interest  in  a  fellow's  own 
achievements,  finding  many  reasons  to  be  impressed  by 
a  few  little  things  in  the  way  of  athletics,  travel,  and 
sport  that  had  never  seemed  at  all  to  impress  the 
many — not  even  the  members  of  one's  own  family. 
Rigby  Reeves,  indeed,  became  an  ardent  partisan  of  Dr. 
Linford,  attending  services  religiously  with  his  mother 
and  sisters — and  nearly  making  a  row  in  the  club  cafe 
one  afternoon  when  the  other  and  more  obdurate  cynic 
declared,  with  a  fine  assumption  of  the  judicial,  that 
Linford  was  "the  best  actor  in  New  York — on  the 
stage  or  off!" 

It  was  concerning  this  habit  of  the  daily  stroll  that 
Aunt  Bell  and  her  niece  also  disagreed  one  afternoon. 
They  were  in  the  little  dark-wooded,  red-walled  library 
of  the  rectory,  Aunt  Bell  with  her  book  of  devotion, 
Nancy  at  her  desk,  writing. 

From  her  low  chair  near  the  window,  Aunt  Bell  had 
just  beheld  the  Doctor's  erect  head,  its  hat  of  flawless 
gloss,  and  his  beautifully  squared  shoulders,  progress 
at  a  moderate  speed  across  her  narrow  field  of  vision. 
In  so  stiffly  a  level  line  had  they  passed  that  a  profane 
thought  seized  her  unawares:  the  fancy  that  the  rector 
of  St.  Antipas  had  been  pulled  by  the  window  on  rollers. 
But  this  was  at  once  atoned  for.  She  observed  that 
Allan  was  one  of  the  few  men  who  walk  always  like 
those  born  to  rule.  Then  she  spoke: 

"Nancy,  why  do  you  never  walk  with  Allan  in  the 
afternoon  ?  Nothing  would  please  him  better — the 
boy  is  positively  proud  to  have  you." 


216  THE  SEEKER 

"Oh,  I  had  to  finish  this  letter  to  Clara,"  Nancy 
answered  abstractedly,  as  if  still  intent  upon  her  writing, 
debating  a  word  with  narrowed  eyes  and  pen-tip  at 
her  teeth. 

But  Aunt  Bell  was  neither  to  be  misunderstood  nor 
insufficiently  answered. 

"Not  this  afternoon,  especially — any  afternoon.  I 
can't  remember  when  you've  walked  with  him.  So 
many  times  I've  heard  you  refuse — and  I  dare  say  it 
doesn't  please  him,  you  know." 

"Oh,  he  has  often  told  me  so." 

"Well?" 

"Aunt  Bell — I — Oh,  you've  walked  on  the  street 
with  Allan!" 

"To  be  sure  I  have!" 

"Well!" 

"Well — of  course — that  is  true  in  a  way — Allan  does 
attract  attention  the  moment  he  reaches  the  pavement — 
and  of  course  every  one  stares  at  one — but  it  isn't  the 
poor  fellow's  fault.  At  least,  if  the  boy  were  at  all 
conscious  of  it  he  might  in  very  little  ways  here  and 
there  prevent  the  very  tiniest  bit  of  it — but,  my  dear, 
your  husband  is  a  man  of  most  striking  appearance — 
especially  in  the  clerical  garb — even  on  that  avenue 
over  there  where  striking  persons  abound — and  it's 
not  to  be  helped.  And  I  can't  wonder  he's  not  pleased 
with  you  when  it  gives  him  such  pleasure  to  have  a 
modish  and  handsome  young  woman  at  his  side.  I 
met  him  the  other  day  walking  down  from  Forty- 
second  Street  with  that  stunning-looking  Mrs.  Wyeth, 
and  he  looked  as  happy  and  bubbling  as  a  school 
boy." 

"Oh — Aunt  Bell — but  of  course,  if  you  don't  see,  I 


THE  SERPENT  OF  IN  APPRECIATION    217 

couldn't  possibly  tell  you.  She  turned  suddenly  to 
her  letter,  as  if  to  dismiss  the  hopeless  task. 

Now  Aunt  Bell,  being  entirely  human,  would  not 
keep  silence  under  an  intimation  that  her  powers  of 
discernment  were  less  than  phenomenal.  The  tone  of 
her  reply,  therefore,  hinted  of  much. 

"My  child — I  may  see  and  gather  and  understand 
much  more  than  I  give  any  sign  of." 

It  was  a  wretchedly  empty  boast.  Doubtless  it  had 
never  been  true  of  Aunt  Bell  at  any  time  in  her  life, 
but  she  was  nettled  now:  one  must  present  frowning 
fortifications  at  a  point  where  one  is  attacked,  even  if 
they  be  only  of  pasteboard.  Then,  too,  a  random 
claim  to  possess  hidden  fruits  of  observation  is  often 
productive.  Much  reticence  goes  down  before  it. 

Nancy  turned  to  her  again  with  a  kind  of  relief  in 
her  face. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Bell,  I  was  sure  of  it — I  couldn't  tell  you, 
but  I  was  sure  you  must  see!"  Her  pen  was  thrown 
aside  and  she  drooped  in  her  chair,  her  hands  listless 
in  her  lap. 

Aunt  Bell  looked  sympathetically  voluble  but  wisely 
refrained  from  speech. 

"I  wonder,"  continued  the  girl,  "if  you  knew  at  the 
time,  the  time  when  my  eyes  seemed  to  open — when  I 
was  deceived  by  his  pretension  into  thinking — you 
remember  that  first  sermon,  Aunt  Bell — how  inde 
pendent  and  noble  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be.  Oh, 
Aunt  Bell — what  a  slump  in  my  faith  that  day!  I 
think  its  foundations  all  went,  and  then  naturally  the 
rest  of  it  just  seemed  to  topple.  Did  you  realise  it  all 
the  time?" 

So  it  was  religious  doubt — a  loss  of  faith — hetero- 


218  THE  SEEKER 

doxy?  Having  listened  until  she  gathered  this  much, 
Aunt  Bell  broke  in — "My  dear,  you  must  let  me  guide 
you  in  this.  You  know  what  I've  been  through. 
Study  the  higher  criticism,  reverently,  if  you  will — 
even  broaden  into  the  higher  unbelief.  Times  have 
changed  since  my  youth;  one  may  broaden  into  almost 
anything  now  and  still  be  orthodox,  especially  in  our 
church.  But  beware  of  the  literal  mind,  the  material 
view  of  things.  Remember  that  the  essentials  of 
Christianity  are  spiritually  historic  even  if  they  aren't 
materially  historic — facts  in  the  human  consciousness 
if  not  in  the  world  of  matter.  You  need  not  pretend 
to  understand  how  God  can  be  one  in  essence  and  three 
in  person — I  grant  you  that  is  only  a  reversion  to  poly 
theism  and  is  so  regarded  by  the  best  Biblical  scholars — 
but  never  surrender  your  belief  in  the  atoning  blood  of 
the  Son  whom  He  sent  a  ransom  for  many — at  least  as 
a  spiritual  fact.  I  myself  have  dismissed  the  Trinity 
as  one  of  those  mysteries  to  be  adoringly  believed  on 
earth  and  comprehended  only  in  heaven — but  that 
God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his  only  begotten 
Son — Child,  do  you  think  I  could  look  forward  without 
fear  to  facing  God,  if  I  did  not  believe  that  the  blood 
of  his  only  begotten  Son  had  washed  from  my  soul 
that  guilt  of  the  sin  I  committed  in  Adam  ?  Cling  to 
these  simple  essentials,  and  otherwise  broaden  even 

into  the  higher  unbelief,  if  you  like " 

"But,  Aunt  Bell,  it  isn't  that!  I  never  trouble  about 
those  things — though  you  have  divined  truly  that  I  have 
doubted  them  lately — but  the  doubts  don't  distress  me. 
Actually,  Aunt  Bell,  for  a  woman  to  lose  faith  in  her 
God  seems  a  small  matter  beside  losing  faith  in  her 
husband.  You  can  doubt  and  reason  and  speculate 


THE  SERPENT  OF  INAPPRECIATION    219 

and  argue  about  the  first — it's  fashionable — people 
rather  respect  unbelievers  nowadays — but  Oh,  Aunt 
Bell,  how  the  other  hurts!" 

"But,  my  child — my  preposterous  child!  How  can 
you  have  lost  faith  in  that  husband  of  yours?  What 
nonsense!  Do  you  mean  you  have  taken  seriously 
those  harmless  jesting  little  sallies  of  his  about  the 
snares  and  pitfalls  of  a  clergyman's  life,  or  his  tales  of 
how  this  or  that  silly  woman  has  allowed  him  to  detect 
in  her  that  pure  reverence  which  most  women  do  feel 
for  a  clergyman,  whether  he's  handsome  or  not  ?  Take 
Mrs.  Wyeth,  for  example — 

"Oh,  Aunt  Bell — no,  no — how  can  you  think " 

"I  admit  Allan  is  the  least  bit — er — redundant  of 
those  anecdotes — perhaps  just  the  least  bit  insistent 
about  the  snares  and  pitfalls  that  beset  an  attractive 
man  in  his  position.  But  really,  my  dear — I  know 
men — and  you  need  never  feel  a  twinge  of  jealousy. 
P'or  one  thing,  Allan  would  be  held  in  bounds  by  fear  of 
the  world,  even  if  his  love  for  you  were  inadequate  to 
hold  him." 

"It's  no  use  trying  to  make  you  understand,  Aunt 
Bell— you  can't!" 

Whereupon  Aunt  Bell  neglected  her  former  device  of 
pretending  that  she  did,  indeed,  understand,  and  bluntly 
asked : 

"Well,  what  is  it,  child?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,  nothing,  Aunt  Bell — it's  only 
what  he  is." 

"What  he  is  f  A  handsome,  agreeable,  healthy, 
good-tempered,  loyal,  upright,  irreproachable " 

"Aunt  Bell,  he's  killing  me.  I  seem  to  want  to  laugh 
when  I  tell  you,  because  it's  so  funny  that  he  should 


220  THE  SEEKER 

have  the  power  to — but  I  tell  you  he's  killing  out  all  the 
good  in  me — a  little  bit  every  day.  I  can't  even  want 
to  be  good.  Oh,  how  stupid  to  think  you  could  see — 
that  any  one  could  see!  Sometimes  I  do  forget  and 
laugh  all  at  once.  It's  as  grotesque  and  unreal  as  an 
imaginary  monster  I  used  to  be  afraid  of — then  I'm 
sick,  for  I  remember  we  are  bound  together  by  the  laws 
of  God  and  man.  Of  course,  you  can't  see,  Aunt  Bell — 
the  fire  hasn't  eaten  through  yet — but  I  tell  you  it's 
burning  inside  day  and  night." 

She  laughed  a  little,  as  if  to  reassure  her  puzzled 
listener. 

"A  fire  eating  away  inside,  Aunt  Bell — burning  out 
my  goodness — if  the  firemen  would  only  come  with 
engines  and  axes  and  hooks  and  things,  and  water — 
I'd  submit  to  being  torn  apart  as  meekly  as  any  old 
house — it  hurts  so!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  APPLE  OF  DOUBT  Is  NIBBLED 

THE  rector  of  St.  Antipas  came  from  preaching  his 
Easter  sermon.  He  was  elated.  Of  the  sermons  deliv 
ered  in  New  York  that  morning,  he  suspected  that  his 
would  be  found  not  the  least  ingenious.  Telling 
excerpts  would  doubtless  appear  in  the  next  day's 
papers,  and  at  least  one  paper  would  reprint  his  favourite 
likeness  over  the  caption,  "Dr.  Allan  Delcher  Linford, 
the  Handsome  and  Up-to-Date  Rector  of  St.  Antipas." 
Under  this  would  be  head-lines:  "The  Resurrection 
Proved ;  a  Literal  Fact  in  History  not  less  than  a  Spir 
itual  Fact  in  the  Human  Consciousness.  An  Unbroken 
Chain  of  Living  Witnesses." 

He  even  worded  scraps  of  the  article  on  his  way  from 
the  church  to  his  study: 

"An  unusually  rich  Easter  service  was  held  at  fashion 
able  St.  Antipas  yesterday  morning.  The  sermon  by 
its  able  and  handsome  young  rector,  the  Reverend  Dr. 
Linford,  was  fraught  with  vital  interest  to  every  thinking 
man.  The  Resurrection  he  declares  to  be  a  fact  as 
well  attested  as  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  is  to  thousands 
who  have  never  seen  it — yet  who  are  convinced  of  its 
existence  upon  the  testimony  of  those  who  have.  Thus 
one  who  has  never  seen  this  bridge  may  be  as  certain  of 
its  existence  as  a  man  who  crosses  it  twice  a  day.  In 
the  same  way,  a  witness  to  the  risen  Christ  tells  the 

221 


222  THE  SEEKER 

glorious  truth  to  his  son,  a  lad  of  fifteen,  who  at  eighty 
tells  it  to  his  grandson.  'Do  you  realise/  said  the 
magnetic  young  preacher,  'that  the  assurance  of  the 
Resurrection  comes  to  you  this  morning  by  word  of 
mouth  through  a  scant  three  thousand  witnesses — a 
living  chain  of  less  than  three  thousand  links  by  which 
we  may  trace  our  steps  back  to  the  presence  of  the  first 
witness — so  that,  in  effect,  we  have  the  Resurrection 
on  the  word  of  a  man  who  beheld  the  living  Saviour  this 
very  morning?  Nay;  further,  in  effect  we  ourselves 
stand  trembling  before  that  stone  rolled  away  from  the 
empty  but  forever  hallowed  tomb.  As  certainly  as 
thousands  know  that  a  structure  called  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  exists,  so  upon  testimony  of  the  same  validity 
do  we  know  that  "God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave 
his  only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  believed  on  him 
might  not  perish  but  have  everlasting  life.'*  God  has 
not  expected  us  to  trust  blindly:  he  has  presented  tan 
gible  and  compelling  evidence  of  his  glorious  scheme 
of  salvation/  The  speaker,  who  is  always  imbued  with 
the  magnetism  of  a  striking  personality,  was  more  than 
usually  effective  on  this  occasion,  and  visibly  moved  the 
throng  of  fashionable  worshippers  that — 

"Allan,  you  outdid  yourself!"  Aunt  Bell  had  come 
in  and,  in  the  mirror  over  the  dining-room  mantel,  was 
bestowing  glances  of  unaffected  but  strictly  impartial 
admiration  upon  the  bonnet  of  lilac  blossoms  that 
rested  above  the  lustrous  puffs  of  her  plenteous  gray 
hair. 

The  young  man  looked  up  from  his  meditative  pacing 
of  the  room. 

"Aunt  Bell,  I  think  I  may  say  that  I  pleased  myself 
this  morning — and  you  know  that's  not  easy  for  me." 


THE  APPLE  OF  DOUBT  IS  NIBBLED    223 

"It's  too  bad  Nance  wasn't  there!" 

"  Nancy  is  not  pleasing  me/'  began  her  husband,  in 
gentle  tones. 

"I  didn't  feel  equal  to  it,  Allan,"  his  wife  called  from 
the  library. 

"Oh,  you're  there!  My  dear,  you  give  up  too  easily 
to  little  indispositions  that  another  woman  would  make 
nothing  of.  I've  repeated  that  to  you  so  often  that, 
really,  your  further  ignoring  it  appears  dangerously  like 
perverseness 

"Is  she  crying?"  he  asked  Aunt  Bell,  as  they  both 
listened. 

"Laughing!"  replied  that  lady. 

"My  dear,  may  I  ask  if  you  are  laughing  at  me ?" 

"Dear,  no! — only  at  something  I  happened  to  think 
of."  She  came  into  the  dining-room,  a  morning  paper 
in  her  hand.  "Besides,  in  to-morrow's  paper  I 
shall  read  all  about  what  the  handsome  rector  of  St. 
Antipas  said,  in  his  handsome  voice,  to  his  handsome 
hearers 

He  had  frowned  at  first,  but  now  smiled  indulgently, 
as  they  sat  down  to  luncheon.  "You  will  have  your 
joke  about  my  appearance,  Nance!  That  reminds 
me — that  poor  romantic  little  Mrs.  Eversley — sister  of 
Mrs.  Wyeth,  you  know — said  to  me  after  service  this 
morning,  'Oh,  Dr.  Linford,  if  I  could  only  believe  in 
Christian  dogma  as  I  believe  in  you  as  a  man!'  You 
know,  she's  such  a  painfully  emotional,  impulsive 
creature,  and  then  Colonel  Godwin  who  stood  by  had 
to  have  his  joke :  '  The  symbol  will  serve  you  for  wor 
ship,  Madam!'  he  says;  'I'm  sure  no  woman's  soul 
would  ever  be  lost  if  all  clergymen  were  as  good  to  look 
upon  as  our  friend  here!'  Those  things  always  make 


224  THE  SEEKER 

me  feel  so  awkward — they  are  said  so  bluntly — but 
what  could  I  do?" 

"Mr.  Browett's  sister  and  her  son  were  out  with  him 
this  morning,"  began  Aunt  Bell,  charitably  entering 
another  channel  of  conversation  from  the  intuition 
that  her  niece  was  wincing.  But,  as  not  infrequently 
happened,  the  seeming  outlet  merely  gave  again  into 
the  main  channel. 

"And  there's  Browett,"  continued  the  Doctor.  "  Now 
I  am  said  to  have  great  influence  over  women — women 
trust  me,  believe  me — I  may  even  say  look  up  to  me — 
but  I  pledge  you  my  word  I  am  conscious  of  wielding  an 
immensely  greater  influence  over  men.  There  seems 
to  be  in  my  ego  the  power  to  prevail.  Take  Browett — 
most  men  are  afraid  of  him — not  physical  fear,  but  their 
inner  selves,  their  egos,  go  down  before  him.  Yet  from 
the  moment  I  first  saw  that  man  I  dominated  him.  It's 
all  in  having  an  ego  that  means  mastery,  Aunt  Bell. 
Browett  has  it  himself,  but  I  have  a  greater  one.  Every 
time  Browett's  eyes  meet  mine  he  knows  in  his  soul  that 
I'm  his  master — his  ego  prostrates  itself  before  mine — 
and  yet  that  man" — he  concluded  in  a  tone  of  dis 
tinguishable  awe — "is  worth  all  the  way  from  two  to 
three  hundred  millions!" 

"Mrs.  Eversley  is  an  unlucky  little  woman,  from  what 
I  hear,"  began  Aunt  Bell,  once  more  with  altruistic  aims. 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  the  Doctor,  recalling  him 
self  from  a  downward  look  at  the  grovelling  Browett, 
"she  made  me  promise  to  be  in  at  four  o'clock.  Really 
I  couldn't  evade  her — it  was  either  four  o'clock  to-day 
or  the  first  possible  day.  What  could  I  do?  Aunt 
Bell,  I  won't  pretend  that  this  being  looked  up  to  and 
sought  out  is  always  disagreeable.  Contrary  to  the 


THE  APPLE  OF  DOUBT  IS  NIBBLED    225 

Pharisee,  I  say  '  Thank  God  I  am  as  other  men  are ! '  I 
have  my  human  moments,  but  mostly  it  bores  me,  and 
especially  these  half-religious,  half-sentimental  con 
fidences  of  emotional  women  who  imagine  their  lives 
are  tragedies.  Now  this  woman  believes  her  marriage 
is  unhappy ' 

"Indeed,  it  is!"  Aunt  Bell  broke  in — this  time  effec 
tually,  for  she  proceeded  to  relate  of  one  Morris  Upton 
Eversley  a  catalogue  of  inelegancies  that,  if  authoritative, 
left  him,  considered  as  a  husband,  undesirable,  not  to 
say  impracticable.  His  demerits,  indeed,  served  to 
bring  the  meal  to  a  blithe  and  chatty  close. 

Aunt  Bell's  practice  each  day  after  luncheon  was,  in 
her  own  terminology,  to  "go  into  the  silence  and  con 
centrate  upon  the  thought  of  the  All-Good."  She  was 
recalled  from  the  psychic  state  on  this  afternoon,  though 
happily  not  before  a  good  half-hour,  by  Nancy's  knock 
at  her  door. 

She  came  in,  cheerful,  a  small  sheaf  of  papers  in  her 
hand.  Aunt  Bell,  finding  herself  restored  and  amiable, 
sat  up  to  listen. 

Nancy  threw  herself  on  the  couch,  with  the  air  of  a 
woman  about  to  chat  confidentially  from  the  softness 
of  many  gay  pillows,  dropping  into  the  attitude  of  tran 
quil  relaxation  that  may  yet  bristle  with  eager  mental 
quills. 

"The  drollest  thing,  Aunt  Bell!  This  morning 
instead  of  hearing  Allan,  I  went  up  to  that  trunk- 
room  and  rummaged  through  the  chest  that  has  all 
those  old  papers  and  things  of  Grandfather  Delcher's. 
And  would  you  believe  it?  For  an  hour  or  more 
there,  I  was  reading  bits  of  his  old  sermons." 

"But  he  was  a  Presbyterian!"     In  her  tone  and 


226  THE   SEEKER 

inflection  Aunt  Bell  ably  conveyed  an  exposition  of  the 
old  gentleman's  impossibility — lucidly  allotting  him  to 
spiritual  fellowship  with  the  head-hunters  of  Borneo. 

"I  know  it,  but,  Aunt  Bell,  those  old  sermons  really 
did  me  good ;  all  full  of  fire  they  were,  too,  but  you  felt 
a  man  back  of  them — a  good  man,  a  real  man.  You 
liked  him,  and  it  didn't  matter  that  his  terminology 
was  at  times  a  little  eccentric.  Grandfather's  theology 
fitted  the  last  days  of  his  life  about  as  crinoline  and 
hoop-skirts  would  fit  over  there  on  the  avenue  to-day — 
but  he  always  made  me  feel  religious.  It  seemed  sweet 
and  good  to  be  a  Christian  when  he  talked.  With  all 
his  antiquated  beliefs  he  never  made  me  doubt  as — as 
I  doubt  to-day.  But  it  was  another  thing  I  wanted  to 
show  you — something  I  found — some  old  compositions 
of  Bernal's  that  his  grandfather  must  have  kept. 
Here's  one  about  birds — '  jingle-birds,  squeak-birds  and 
clatter-birds.'  No? — you  wouldn't  care  for  that? — 
well — listen  to  this." 

She  read  the  youthful  Bernal's  effort  to  rehabilitate 
the  much-blemished  reputation  of  Judas — a  paper  that 
had  been  curiously  preserved  by  the  old  man. 

"Poor  Judas,  indeed!"  The  novelty  was  not  lost 
upon  Aunt  Bell,  expert  that  she  was  in  all  obliquities 
from  accepted  tradition. 

"The  funny  boy!  Very  ingenious,  I'm  sure.  I  dare 
say  no  one  ever  before  said  a  good  word  for  Judas  since 
the  day  of  his  death,  and  this  lad  would  canonise  him 
out  of  hand.  Think  of  it— St.  Judas!" 

Nancy  lay  back  among  the  cushions,  talking  idly, 
inconsequently. 

"You  see,  there  was  at  least  one  man  created,  Aunt 
Bell,  who  could  by  no  chance  be  saved — one  man  who 


THE  APPLE  OF  DOUBT  IS  NIBBLED    227 

had  to  betray  the  Son  of  Man — one  man  to  be  forever 
left  out  of  the  Christian  scheme  of  salvation,  even  if 
every  other  in  the  world  were  saved.  There  had  to  be 
one  man  to  disbelieve,  to  betray  and  to  lie  in  hell  for  it, 
or  the  whole  plan  would  have  been  frustrated.  There 
was  a  theme  for  Dante,  Aunt  Bell — not  the  one  soul  in 
hell,  but  the  other  souls  in  heaven  slowly  awakening  to 
the  suffering  of  that  one  soul — to  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  suffering  in  order  that  they  might  be  saved.  Do 
you  think  they  would  find  heaven  to  be  real  heaven  if 
they  knew  he  was  burning?  And  don't  you  think  a 
poet  could  make  some  interesting  talk  between  this 
solitary  soul  predestined  to  hell,  and  the  God  who 
planned  the  scheme?" 

Aunt  Bell  looked  bored  and  uttered  a  swift,  low  phrase 
that  might  have  been  "Fiddlesticks!" 

"My  dear,  no  one  believes  in  hell  nowadays." 

"Does  any  one  believe  in  anything?" 

"Belief  in  the  essentials  of  Christianity  was  never 
more  apparent." 

It  was  a  treasured  phrase  from  the  morning's  sermon. 

"What  are  the  essentials?" 

"Belief  that  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his 
only  begotten  Son — you  know  as  well  as  I,  child — belief 
in  the  atoning  blood  of  the  Christ." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  awful,  Aunt  Bell,  if  you  didn't 
believe  in  it,  and  had  to  be  in  hell  because  the  serpent 
persuaded  Eve  and  Eve  persuaded  Adam  to  eat  the 
apple — that's  the  essential  foundation  of  Christianity, 
isn't  it?" 

"Why,  certainly — you  must  believe  in  original  sin " 

"I  see — here's  a  note  in  Bernal's  hand,  on  one  of 
these  old  papers — evidently  written  much  later  than  the 


228  THE  SEEKER 

other:  'The  old  gentleman  says  Christmas  is  losing  its 
deeper  significance.  What  is  it?  That  the  Babe  of 
Bethlehem  was  begotten  by  his  Father  to  be  a  sacrifice 
to  its  Father — that  its  blood  might  atone  for  the  sin  of 
his  first  pair — and  so  save  from  eternal  torment  the  off 
spring  of  that  pair.  God  will  no  longer  be  appeased 
by  the  blood  of  lambs;  nothing  but  the  blood  of  his  son 
will  now  atone  for  the  sin  of  his  own  creatures.  It 
seems  to  me  the  sooner  Christmas  loses  this  deeper  sig 
nificance  the  better.  Poor  old  loving  human  nature 
gives  it  a  much  more  beautiful  significance/'3 

"My  dear,"  began  Aunt  Bell,  "before  I  broadened 
into  what  I  have  called  the  higher  unbelief,  I  should 
have  considered  that  that  young  man  had  a  positive 
genius  for  blasphemy;  now  that  I  have  again  come  into 
the  shadow  of  the  cross,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  merely 
lacks  imagination." 

"Poor  Bernal!  Yet  he  made  me  believe,  though  he 
seemed  to  believe  in  nothing  himself.  He  makes  me 
believe  now.  He  calls  to  me,  Aunt  Bell — or  is  it  myself 
calling  to  him  that  I  hear? 

"And  blasphemy — even  the  word  is  ridiculous,  Aunt 
Bell.  I  was  at  the  day-nursery  yesterday  when  all 
those  babies  were  brought  in  to  their  dinner.  They 
are  strictly  forbidden  to  coo  or  to  make  any  noise,  and 
they  really  behaved  finely  for  two-  and  three-year-olds 
— though  I  did  see  one  outlaw  reach  over  before 
the  signal  was  given  and  lovingly  pat  the  big  fat 
cookie  beside  its  plate  —  thinking  its  insubordina 
tion  would  be  overlooked — but,  Aunt  Bell,  do  you 
suppose  one  of  those  fifty-two  babies  could  blaspheme 
you?" 

"Don't  be  silly!" 


THE  APPLE  OF  DOUBT  IS  NIBBLED    229 

"But  can  you  imagine  one  of  them  capable  of  any 
disrespect  to  you  that  would  merit — say,  burning  or 
something  severe  like  that?" 

"Of  course  not!" 

"Well,  don't  you  really  believe  that  God  is  farther 
beyond  you  or  me  or  the  foolish  boy  that  wrote  this,  than 
we  are  beyond  those  babies — with  a  greater,  bigger 
point  of  view,  a  fuller  love?  Imagine  the  God  that 
made  everything — the  worlds  and  birds  and  flowers 
and  butterflies  and  babies  and  mountains  —  imagine 
him  feeling  insulted  because  one  of  his  wretched  little 
John  Smiths  or  Bernal  Linfords  babbles  little  human 
words  about  him,  or  even  worries  his  poor  little  human 
heart  with  doubts  of  His  existence ! " 

"My  child,  yours  is  but  a  finite  mind,  unable  to  limit 
or  define  the  Infinite.  What  is  it,  anyway — is  it  Chris 
tian  Science  taking  hold  of  you,  or  that  chap  who  preaches 
that  they  have  the  Messiah  re-incarnated  and  now  living 
in  Syria — Babbists,  aren't  they — or  is  it  theosophy — 
or  are  you  simply  dissatisfied  with  Allan  ?  "  A  sudden 
shrewd  glance  from  Aunt  Bell's  baby-blue  eyes  went 
with  this  last. 

Nancy  laughed,  then  grew  serious.  "I  think  the  last 
is  it,  Aunt  Bell.  A  woman  seems  to  doubt  God  and 
everything  else  after  she  begins  to  doubt  the  husband 
she  has  loved.  Really,  I  And  myself  questioning  every 
thing — every  moral  standard." 

"Nance,  you  are  an  ungrateful  woman  to  speak  like 
that  of  Allan!" 

"  I  never  should  have  done  it,  dear,  if  you  hadn't  made 
me  believe  you  knew.  I  should  have  thought  it  out  all 
by  myself,  and  then  acted,  if  I  found  I  could  with  any 


230  THE  SEEKER 

"Eh?  Mercy!  You  couldn't.  The  idea!  And 
there's  Allan,  now.  Come!" 

The  Doctor  was  on  the  threshold.  "So  here  you  are! 
Well,  I've  just  sent  Mrs.  Eversley  away  in  tears." 

He  dropped  into  an  arm-chair  with  a  little  half- 
humorous  moan  of  fatigue. 

"It's  a  relief,  sometimes,  to  know  you  can  relax  and 
let  your  whole  weight  absolutely  down  on  to  the  broad 
earth!"  he  declared. 

"Mrs.  Eversley?"  suggested  Aunt  Bell. 

"Well,  the  short  of  it  is,  she  told  me  her  woes 
and  begged  me  to  give  my  sanction  to  her  securing  a 
divorce!" 

Nancy  sat  up  from  her  pillows.  "Oh — and  you 
did?" 

"Nancy!"  It  was  low,  but  clear,  quick-spoken, 
stern,  and  hurt.  "You  forget  yourself.  At  least  you 
forget  my  view  and  the  view  of  my  Church.  Even 
were  I  out  of  the  Church,  I  should  still  regard  mar 
riage  as  a  sacrament — indissoluble  except  by  death.  The 
very  words — 'Whom  God  hath  joined"  —he  became 
almost  oratorical  in  his  warmth — "Surely  you  would 
not  expect  me  to  use  my  influence  in  this  parish  to  under 
mine  the  sanctity  of  the  home — to  attack  our  emblem 
of  Christ's  union  with  His  Church!" 

With  reproach  in  his  eyes-  a  reproach  that  in  some 
way  seemed  to  be  bland  and  mellow,  yet  with  a  hurt 
droop  to  his  handsome  head,  he  went  from  the  room. 
Nancy  looked  after  him,  longingly,  wonderingly. 

"The  maddening  thing  is,  Aunt  Bell,  that  some 
times  he  actually  has  the  power  to  make  me  believe  in 
him.  But,  oh,  doesn't  Christ's  union  with  his  Church 
have  some  ghastly  symbols!" 


CHAPTER   IX 
SINFUL    PERVERSENESS    OF    THE    NATURAL    WOMAN 

Two  months  later  a  certain  tension  in  the  rectory  of 
St.  Antipas  was  temporarily  relieved.  Like  the  spring 
of  a  watch  wound  too  tightly,  it  snapped  one  day  at 
Nancy's  declaration  that  she  would  go  to  Edom  for  a 
time — would  go,  moreover,  without  a  reason — without 
so  much  as  a  woman's  easy  "because."  This  circum 
stance,  while  it  froze  in  the  bud  every  available  objection 
to  her  course,  quelled  none  of  the  displeasure  that  was 
felt  at  her  woman's  perversity. 

Her  decision  was  announced  one  morning  after  a 
sleepless  night,  and  after  she  had  behaved  unaccountably 
for  three  days. 

"You  are  not  pleasing  Allan,"  was  Aunt  Bell's  mas 
terly  way  of  putting  the  situation.  Nancy  laughed 
from  out  of  the  puzzling  reserve  into  which  she  had 
lately  settled. 

"So  he  tells  me,  Aunt  Bell.  He  utters  it  with  the  air 
of  telling  me  something  necessarily  to  my  discredit — 
yet  I  wonder  whose  fault  it  really  is." 

"Well,  of  all  things!"  Aunt  Bell  made  no  effort  to 
conceal  her  amazement. 

"It  isn't  necessarily  mine,  you  know."  Before  the 
mirror  she  brought  the  veil  nicely  about  the  edge  of  her 
hat,  with  the  strained  and  solemn  absorption  of  a  woman 


231 


232  THE  SEEKER 

in  this  shriving  of  her  reflection  so  that  it  may  go  out  in 
peace. 

"My  failure  to  please  Allan,  you  know,  may  as  easily 
be  due  to  his  defects  as  to  mine.  I  said  so,  but  he  only 
answered,  'Really,  you're  not  pleasing  me/  And,  as 
he  often  says  of  his  own  predicaments — 'What  could  I 
do?'  But  I'm  glad  he  persists  in  it." 

"Why,  if  you  resent  it  so  ?" 

"Because,  Aunt  Bell,  I  must  be  quite — quite  certain 
that  Allan  is  funny.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  make  a 
mistake.  If  only  I  could  be  certain — positive — con 
vinced — sure — that  Allan  is  the  funniest  thing  in  all  the 
world- 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  Allan  is  funny."  Aunt 
Bell  paused  for  an  instant's  retrospect.  "Now,  he 
doesn't  joke  much." 

"One  doesn't  have  to  joke  to  be  a  joke,  Aunt  Bell." 

"  But  what  if  he  were  funny  ?  Why  is  that  so  impor 
tant?" 

"Oh,  it's  important  because  of  the  other  thing  that 
you  know  you  know  when  you  know  that." 

"Mercy!  Child,  you  should  have  a  cup  of  cocoa  or 
something  before  you  start  off — really 

The  last  long  hatpin  seemingly  pierced  the  head  of 
Nancy  and  she  turned  from  the  glass  to  fumble  on  her 
gloves. 

"Aunt  Bell,  if  Allan  tells  me  once  more  in  that  hurt, 
gentle  tone  that  I  don't  please  him,  I  believe  I  shall  be 
the  freest  of  free  women — ready  to  live." 

She  paused  to  look  vacantly  into  the  wall.  "Some 
times,  you  know,  I  seem  to  wake  up  with  a  clear  mind 
— but  the  day  clouds  it.  We  shouldn't  believe  so  many 
falsities,  Aunt  Bell,  if  they  didn't  pinch  our  brains  into 


SINFUL  PERVERSENESS  OF  WOMAN    233 

it  at  a  tender  age.  I  should  know  Allan  through  and 
through  at  a  glance  to-day,  if  I  met  him  for  the  first 
time;  but  he  kneaded  my  poor  girl's  brain  this  way  and 
that,  till  I'd  have  been  done  for,  Aunt  Bell,  if  some  one 
else  hadn't  kneaded  and  patted  it  into  other  ways,  so 
that  little  memories  come  back  and  stay  with  me — 
little  bits  of  sweetness  and  genuineness — of  realness, 
Aunt  Bell." 

"  Nance,  you  are  morbid — and  I  think  you're  wrong 
to  go  up  there  to  be  alone  with  your  sick  fancies — why 
are  you  going,  Nance  ?  " 

"Aunt  Bell,  can  I  really  trust  you  not  to  betray  me? 
Will  you  promise  to  keep  the  secret  if  I  actually  tell 
you?" 

Aunt  Bell  looked  at  once  important  and  trustworthy, 
yet  of  an  incorruptible  propriety. 

"I'm  sure,  my  dear,  you  would  not  ask  me  to  keep 
secret  anything  that  your  husband  would  be 

"Dear,  no!  You  can  keep  mum  with  a  spotless  con 
science." 

"Of  course ;  I  was  sure  of  that!" 

"What  a  fraud  you  are,  Aunt  Bell — you  weren't  sure 

at  all — but  I  shall  disappoint  you.  Now  my  reason 

She  came  close    and  spoke  low "My    reason   for 

going  to  Edom,  whatever  it  is,  is  so  utterly  silly  that  I 
haven't  even  dared  to  tell  myself — so,  you  see — my 
real  reason  for  going  is  simply  to  find  out  what  my 
reason  really  is.  I'm  dying  to  know.  There!  Now 
never  say  I  didn't  trust  you." 

In  the  first  shock  of  this  fall  from  her  anticipations 
Aunt  Bell  neglected  to  remember  that  All  is  Good. 
Yet  she  was  presently  far  enough  mollified  to  accom 
pany  her  niece  to  the  station. 


234  THE  SEEKER 

Returning  from  thence  after  she  had  watched  Nancy 
through  the  gate  to  the  3 : 05  Edom  local,  Aunt  Bell 
lingered  at  the  open  study  door  of  the  rector  of  St. 
Antipas.  He  looked  up  cordially. 

"You  know,  Allan,  it  may  do  the  child  good,  after 
all,  to  be  alone  a  little  while." 

"Nancy — has — not — pleased — me!"  The  words 
were  clean-cut,  with  an  illuminating  pause  after  each, 
so  that  Aunt  Bell  might  by  no  chance  mistake  their 
import,  yet  the  tone  was  low  and  not  without  a  quality 
of  winning  sweetness — the  tone  of  the  injured  good. 

"I've  seen  that,  Allan.  Nance  undoubtedly  has  a 
vein  of  selfishness.  Instead  of  striving  to  please  her 
husband,  she — well,  she  has  practically  intimated  to 
me  that  a  wife  has  the  right  to  please  herself.  Of 
course,  she  didn't  say  it  brutally  in  just  those  words, 
but— 

"It's  the  modern  spirit,  Aunt  Bell — the  spirit  of 
unbelief.  It  has  made  what  we  call  the  'new  woman' 
— that  noxious  flower  on  the  stalk  of  scientific  material 
ism." 

He  turned  and  wrote  this  phrase  rapidly  on  a  pad  at 
his  elbow,  while  Aunt  Bell  waited  expectantly  for  more. 

"There's  a  sermon  that  writes  itself,  Aunt  Bell. 
'Woman's  deterioration  under  Modern  Infidelity  to 
God.'  As  truly  as  you  live,  this  thing  called  the  'new 
woman '  has  grown  up  side  by  side  with  the  thing  called 
the  higher  criticism.  And  it's  natural.  Take  away 
God's  word  as  revealed  in  the  Scriptures  and  you  make 
woman  a  law  unto  herself.  Man's  state  is  then  wretched 
enough,  but  contemplate  woman's!  Having  put  aside 
Christ's  authority,  she  naturally  puts  aside  mans,  hence 
we  have  the  creature  who  mannishly  desires  the  suffrage 


SINFUL  PERVERSENESS  OF  WOMAN    235 

and  attends  club  meetings  and  argues,  and  has  views — 
views,  Aunt  Bell,  on  the  questions  of  the  day — the 
woman  who,  as  you  have  just  succinctly  said  of  your 
niece,  '  believes  she  has  a  right  to  please  herself! '  There 
is  the  keynote  of  the  modern  divorce  evil,  Aunt  Bell — 
she  has  a  right  to  please  herself.  Believing  no  longer 
in  God,  she  no  longer  feels  bound  by  His  command 
ment:  'Wives  be  subject  to  your  husbands!'  Why, 
Aunt  Bell,  if  you  can  imagine  Christianity  shorn  of  all 
its  other  glories,  it  would  still  be  the  greatest  religion 
the  world  has  ever  known,  because  it  holds  woman 
sternly  in  her  sphere  and  maintains  the  sanctity  of  the 
home.  Now,  I  know  nothing  of  the  real  state  of  Nancy's 
faith,  but  the  fact  that  she  believes  she  has  a  right 
to  please  herself  is  enough  to  convince  me.  I  would 
stake  my  right  arm  this  moment,  upon  just  this  evi 
dence,  that  Nancy  has  become  an  unbeliever.  When  I 
let  her  know  as  plainly  as  English  words  can  express  it 
that  she  is  not  pleasing  me,  she  looks  either  sullen  or 
flippant — thus  showing  distinctly  a  loss  of  religious 
faith." 

"You  ought  to  make  a  stunning  sermon  of  that, 
Allan.  I  think  society  needs  it." 

"It  does,  Aunt  Bell,  it  does!  And  we  are  going  from 
bad  to  worse.  I  foresee  the  time  in  this  very  age  of  ours 
when"- no  woman  will  continue  to  be  wife  to  a  man 
except  by  the  dictates  of  her  own  lawless  and  corrupt 
nature — when  a  wife  will  make  so-called  love  her  only 
rule — when  she  will  brazenly  disregard  the  law  of  God 
and  the  word  of  his  only  begotten  crucified  Son,  unless 
she  can  continue  to  feel  what  she  calls  'love  and  respect' 
for  the  husband  who  -chose  her.  We  prize  liberty, 
Aunt  Bell,  but  liberty  with  woman  has  become  license 


236  THE  SEEKER 

since  she  lost  faith  in  the  word  of  God  that  holds  her 
subject  to  man.  We  should  be  thankful  that  the  mother 
Church  still  stands  firm  on  that  rock — the  rock  of 
woman's  subjection  to  man.  Our  own  Church  has 
quibbled,  Aunt  Bell,  but  look  at  the  fine  consistency  of 
the  Church  of  Rome.  As  truly  as  you  live,  the  Catholic 
Church  will  one  day  hold  the  only  women  who  subject 
themselves  to  their  husbands  in  all  things  because  of 
God's  command — regardless  of  their  anarchistic  desire 
to  'please  themselves/  There  is  the  only  Christian 
Church  left  that  knows  woman  is  a  creature  to  be  ruled 
with  an  iron  hand — and  has  the  courage  to  send  them 
to  hell  for  'pleasing  themselves.'" 

He  glowed  in  meditation  a  moment,  then,  in  a  burst 
of  confidence,  continued : 

"This  is  not  to  be  repeated,  Aunt  Bell,  but  I  have 
more  than  once  questioned  if  I  should  always  allow  the 
Anglo-Catholic  Church  to  modify  my  true  Catholicism. 
I  have  talked  freely  with  Father  Riley  of  St.  Clements 
at  our  weekly  ministers'  meetings — there's  a  bright 
chap  for  you — and  really,  Aunt  Bell,  as  to  mere  uni 
versality,  the  Church  of  Rome  has  about  the  only  claim 
worth  considering.  Mind  you,  this  is  not  to  be  repeated, 
but  I  am  often  so  much  troubled  that  I  have  to  fall  back 
on  my  simple  childish  faith  in  the  love  of  the  Father 
earned  of  him  for  me  by  the  Son's  death  on  the  cross. 
But  what  if  I  err  in  making  my  faith  too  simple  ?  Even 
now  I  am  almost  persuaded  that  a  priest  ordained  into 
the  Episcopal  Church  cannot  consecrate  the  elements 
of  the  Eucharist  in  a  sacrificial  sense.  Doubts  like 
these  are  tragedies  to  an  honest  man,  Aunt  Bell — they 
try  his  soul — they  bring  him  each  day  to  the  foot  of  that 
cross  whereon  the  Son  of  God  suffers  his  agony  in  order 


SINFUL  PERVERSENESS  OF  WOMAN     237 

to  ransom  our  souls  from  God's  wrath  with  us — and 
there  are  times,  Aunt  Bell,  when  I  find  myself  gazing 
longingly,  like  a  little  tired  child,  at  the  open  arms  of  the 
mother  Church — on  whose  loving  bosom  of  authority 
a  man  may  lay  all  his  doubts  and  be  never  again  troubled 
in  his  mind." 

Aunt  Bell  sighed  cheerfully. 

"After  all,"  she  said  briskly,  "isn't  Christianity  the 
most  fascinating  of  all  beliefs,  if  one  conies  into  it  from 
the  higher  unbelief?  Isn't  it  fine,  Allan — doesn't  the 
very  thought  excite  you — that  not  only  the  souls  of 
thousands  now  living,  but  thousands  yet  unborn,  will 
be  affected  through  all  eternity  for  good  or  bad,  by  the 
clearness  with  which  you,  here  at  this  moment,  perceive 
and  reason  out  these  spiritual  values — and  the  honesty 
with  which  you  act  upon  your  conclusions.  How  truly 
God  has  made  us  responsible  for  the  souls  of  one 
another!" 

The  rector  of  St.  Antipas  shrugged  modestly  at  this 
bald  wording  of  his  responsibility;  then  he  sighed  and 
bent  his  head  as  one  honestly  conscious  of  the  situation's 
gravity. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN  WHO  HAD  No  REASON 

IT  was  not  a  jest — Nancy's  telling  Aunt  Bell  that  her 
reason  for  going  to  Edom  was  too  foolish  to  give  even 
to  herself.  At  least  such  reticence  to  self  is  often  sin 
cerely  and  plausibly  asserted  by  the  very  inner  woman. 
Yet  no  sooner  had  her  train  started  than  her  secret 
within  a  secret  began  to  tell  itself:  at  first  in  whispers, 
then  low  like  a  voice  overheard  through  leafy  trees; 
then  loud  and  louder  until  all  the  noise  of  the  train  did 
no  more  than  confuse  the  words  so  that  only  she  could 
hear  them. 

When  the  exciting  time  of  this  listening  had  gone  and 
she  stepped  from  the  train  into  the  lazy  spring  silence 
of  the  village,  her  own  heart  spelled  the  thing  in  quick, 
loud,  hammering  beats — a  thing  which,  now  that  she 
faced  it,  was  so  wildly  impossible  that  her  cheeks 
burned  at  the  first  second  of  actual  realisation  of  its 
enormity;  and  her  knees  weakened  in  a  deathly  trem 
ble,  quite  as  if  they  might  bend  embarrassingly  in  either 
direction. 

Then  in  the  outer  spaces  of  her  mind  there  grew,  to 
save  her,  a  sense  of  her  crass  fatuity.  She  was  quickly 
in  a  carriage,  eager  to  avoid  any  acquaintance,  glad 
the  driver  was  no  village  familiar  who  might  amiably 
seek  to  regale  her  with  gossip.  They  went  swiftly  up 

238 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN        239 

the  western  road  through  its  greening  elms  to  where 
Clytie  kept  the  big  house — her  own  home  while  she 
lived,  and  the  home  of  the  family  when  they  chose  to  go 
there. 

At  last,  the  silent,  cool  house  with  its  secretive  green 
shutters  rose  above  her;  the  wheels  made  their  little 
crisping  over  the  fine  metal  of  the  driveway.  She  has 
tily  paid  the  man  and  was  at  the  side  door  that  opened 
into  the  sitting-room.  As  she  put  her  hand  to  the  knob 
she  was  conscious  of  Clytie  passing  the  window  to  open 
the  door. 

Then  they  were  face  to  face  over  the  threshold — 
Clytemnestra,  of  a  matronly  circumference,  yet  with 
a  certain  prim  consciousness  of  herself,  which  despite 
the  gray  hair  and  the  excellent  maturity  of  her  face, 
was  unmistakably  maidenish — Clytie  of  the  eyes  always 
wise  to  another's  needs  and  beaming  with  that  fine 
wisdom. 

She  started  back  from  the  doorway  by  way  of  being 
playfully  dramatic — her  hands  on  her  hips,  her  head 
to  one  side  at  an  astounded  angle.  Yet  little 
more  than  a  second  did  she  let  herself  simulate  this 
welcoming  incredulity — this  stupefaction  of  cordiality. 
There  must  be  quick  speech — especially  as  to  Nancy's 
face — which  seemed  strangely  unfamiliar,  set,  sup 
pressed,  breathless,  unaccountably  young — and  there 
had  to  be  the  splendid  announcement  of  another 
matter. 

"Why,  child,  is  it  you  or  your  ghost  ?" 

Nancy  could  only  nod  her  head. 

"My  suz!  what  ails  the  child?" 

Here  the  other  managed  a  shake  of  the  head  and  a 
made  smile. 


240  THE  SEEKER 

"And  of  all  things! — you'll  never,  never,  never 
guess! — 

"There — there! — yes,  yes — yes!  I  know — know  all 
about  it — knew  it — knew  it  last  night — 

She  had  put  out  a  hand  toward  Clytie  and  now  reached 
the  other  from  her  side,  easing  herself  to  the  door 
post  against  which  she  leaned  and  laughed,  weakly, 
vacantly. 

"Some  one  told  you — on  the  way  up  ?" 

"Yes — I  knew  it,  I  tell  you — that's  what  makes  it  so 
funny  and  foolish — why  I  came,  you  know —  She 

had  now  gained  a  little  in  coherence,  and  with  it  came 
a  final  doubt.  She  steadied  herself  in  the  doorway  to 
ask— "When  did  Berrial  come?" 

And  Clytie,  somewhat  relieved,  became  voluble. 

"  Night  before  last  on  the  six-fifteen,  and  me  getting 
home  late  from  the  Epworth  meeting — fire  out — not  a 
stick  of  kindling-wood  in — only  two  cakes  in  the  but 
tery,  neither  of  them  a  layer — not  a  frying-size  chicken 
on  the  place — thank  goodness  he  didn't  have  the  ap 
petite  he  used  to — though  in  another  way  it's  just 
downright  heartbreaking  to  see  a  person  you  care  for 
not  be  a  ready  eater — but  I  had  some  of  the  plura 
jell  he  used  to  like,  and  the  good  half  of  an  apple-John 
which  I  at  once  het  up — and  I  sent  Mehitty  Lykins 
down  for  some  chops " 

"Where  is  he?" 

There  had  seemed  to  be  a  choking  in  the  question. 
Clytie  regarded  her  curiously. 

"He  was  lying  down  up  in  the  study  a  while  ago — 
kicking  one  foot  up  in  the  air  against  the  wall,  with  his 
head  nearly  off  the  sofy  onto  the  floor,  just  like  he 
used  to — there — that's  his  step 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN          241 

"I  can't  see  him  now!  Here — let  me  go  into  your 
room  till  I  freshen  and  rest  a  bit — quick — 

Once  more  the  indecisive  knees  seemed  about  to 
bend  either  way  under  their  burden.  With  an  effort 
of  will  she  drew  the  amazed  Clyde  toward  the 
open  door  of  the  latter Js  bedroom,  then  closed  it 
quickly,  and  stood  facing  her  in  the  dusk  of  the 
curtained  room. 

"Clyde — I'm  weak — it's  so  strange — actually  weak — 
I  shake  so— Oh,  Clytie— I've  got  to  cry!" 

There  was  a  mutual  opening  of  arms  and  a  head  on 
Clyde's  shoulder,  wet  eyes  close  in  a  corner  that  had 
once  been  the  good  woman's  neck — and  stifling  sobs 
that  seemed  one  moment  to  contract  her  body  rigidly 
from  head  to  foot — the  next  to  leave  it  limp  and  falling. 
From  ^hjp^iursing  shoulder  she  was  helped  to  the  bed, 
though  srie  could  not  yet  relax  her  arms  from  that 
desperate  grip  of  Clyde's  neck.  Long  she  held  her  so, 
even  after  the  fit  of  weeping  passed,  clasping  her  with 
arms  in  which  there  was  almost  a  savage  intensity — 
arms  that  locked  themselves  more  fiercely  at  any  little 
stirring  of  the  prisoned  one. 

At  last,  when  she  had  lain  quiet  a  long  time,  the 
grasp  was  suddenly  loosened  and  Clytie  was  privileged 
to  ease  her  aching  neck  and  cramped  shoulders.  Then, 
even  as  she  looked  down,  she  heard  from  Nancy  the 
measured  soft  breathing  of  sleep.  She  drew  a  curtain 
to  shut  out  one  last  ray  of  light,  and  went  softly  from 
the  room. 

Two  hours  later,  as  Clytemnestra  attained  ultimate 
perfection  in  the  arrangement  of  four  glass  dishes  of 
preserves  and  three  varieties  of  cake  upon  her  table — 
for  she  still  kept  to  the  sinfully  complex  fare  of  the  good 


242  THE  SEEKER 

old  simple  days — Nancy  came  out.  Clytie  stood  erect 
to  peer  anxiously  over  the  lamp  at  her. 

"I'm  all  right — you  were  a  dear  to  let  me  sleep. 
See  how  fresh  I  am." 

"You  do  look  pearter,  child — but  you  look  different 
from  when  you  came.  My  suz!  you  looked  so  excited 
and  kind  of  young  when  I  opened  that  door,  it  give  me 
a  start  for  a  minute — I  thought  I'd  woke  out  of  a  dream 
and  you  was  a  Miss  in  short  skirts  again.  But  now — 
let  me  see  you  closer."  She  came  around  the  table, 
then  continued:  "Well,  you  look  fresh  and  sweet  and 
some  rested,  and  you  look  old  and  reasonable  again — 
I  mean  as  old  as  you  had  ought  to  look.  I  never  did 
know  you  to  act  that  way  before,  child.  My  neck  ain't 
got  the  crick  out  of  it  yet." 

"Poor  old  Clytie^ — but  you  see  yesterday  all  day  I 
felt  queer — very  queer,  and  wrought  up,  and  last  night 
I  couldn't  rest,  and  I  lay  awake  and  excited  all  night — 
and  something  seemed  to  give  way  when  I  saw  you  in 
the  door.  Of  course  it  was  nervousness,  and  I  shall 
be  all  right  now — 

She  looked  up  and  saw  Bernal  staring  at  her — 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  big  room,  his  face 
shading  into  the  dusk  back  of  him.  She  went  to  him 
with  both  hands  out  and  he  kissed  her. 

"Is  it  Nance?" 

"I  don't  know— but  it's  really  Bernal." 

"Clytie  says  you  knew  I  had  come." 

"Clytie  must  have  misunderstood.  No  one  even 
intimated  such  a  thing.  I  came  up  to-day — I  had  to 
come — because — if  I  had  known  you  were  here, 
wouldn't  I  have  brought  Allan?" 

"Of  course  I  was  going  to  let  you  know,  and  come 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN          243 

down  in  a  few  days — there  was  some  business  to  do 
here.  Dear  old  Allan!  Fm  aching  to  get  a  strangle 
hold  on  him!" 

"Yes — he'll  be  so  glad — there's  so  much  to  say!" 

"I  didn't  know  whom  I  should  find  here." 

"We've  had  Clytie  look  after  both  houses — some 
times  we've  rented  mine — and  almost  every  summer 
we've  come  here." 

"You  know  I  didn't  dream  I  was  rich  until  I  gat 
here.  The  lawyer  says  they've  advertised,  but  I've 
been  away  from  everything  most  of  the  time — not 
looking  out  for  advertisements.  I  can't  understand 
the  old  gentleman,  when  I  was  such  a  reprobate 
and  Allan  was  always  such  a  thoroughly  decent 
chap." 

"Oh,  hardly  a  reprobate!" 

"Worse,  Nance — an  ass — think  of  my  talking  to  that 
dear  old  soul  as  I  did — taking  twenty  minutes  off  to 
win  him  from  his  lifelong  faith.  I  shudder  when  I 
remember  it.  And  yet  I  honestly  thought  he  might 
be  made  to  see  things  my  way." 

Their  speech  had  been  quick,  and  her  eyes  were 
fastened  upon  his  with  a  look  from  the  old  days  striving 
in  her  to  bring  back  that  big  moment  of  their  last  parting 
— that  singular  moment  when  they  blindly  groped  for 
each  other  but  had  perforce  to  be  content  with  one 
poor,  trembling  handclasp!  Had  that  trembling  been 
a  weakness  or  a  strength  ?  For  all  time  since — and 
increasingly  during  the  later  years — secret  memories 
of  it  had  wonderfully  quickened  a  life  that  would  other 
wise  have  tended  to  fall  dull,  torpid,  stubborn.  It  was 
not  that  their  hands  had  met,  but  that  they  had  trem 
bled — those  two  strange  hands  that  had  both  repelled 


244  THE  SEEKER 

and  coerced  each  other — faltering  at  last  into  that  long 
moment  of  triumphant  certainty. 

Under  the  first  light  words  with  Bernal  this  memory 
had  welled  up  anew  in  her  with  a  mighty  power  before 
which  she  was  as  a  leaf  in  the  wind.  Then,  all  at  once, 
she  saw  that  they  had  become  dazed  and  speechless 
above  this  present  clasp — the  yielding,  yet  opposing, 
of  those  all-knowing,  never-forgetting  hands.  There 
followed  one  swift  mutual  look  of  bewilderment.  Then 
their  hands  fell  apart  and  with  little  awkward  laughs 
they  turned  to  Clytie. 

They  were  presently  at  table,  Clytie  in  a  trance  of 
ecstatic  watchfulness  for  emptied  plates,  broken  only 
by  Teachings  and  urgings  of  this  or  that  esteemed  flesh- 
pot. 

Under  the  ready  talk  that  flowed,  Nancy  had  oppor 
tunity  to  observe  the  returned  one.  And  now  his 
strangeness  vaguely  hurt  her.  The  voice  and  the  face 
were  not  those  that  had  come  to  secret  life  in  her  heart 
during  the  years  of  his  absence.  Here  was  not  the 
laughing  boy  she  had  known,  with  his  volatile,  Lucifer- 
like  charm  of  light-hearted  recklessness  in  the  face  of 
destiny.  Instead,  a  thinned,  shy  face  rose  before  her, 
a  face  full  of  awkwardness  and  dreaming,  troubled  and 
absent;  a  face  that  one  moment  appealed  by  its  defense 
less  forgetfulness,  and  the  next,  coerced  by  a  look  elo 
quent  of  tested  strength. 

As  she  watched  him,  there  were  two  of  her:  one,  the 
girl  dreaming  forward  out  of  the  past,  receptive  of  one 
knew  not  what  secrets  from  inner  places;  the  other, 
the  vivid,  alert  woman — listening,  waiting,  judging. 
She  it  was  whose  laugh  came  often  to  make  of  her  face 
the  perfect  whole  out  of  many  little  imperfections. 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN          245 

Later,  when  they  sat  in  the  early  summer  night,  under 
a  moon  blurred  to  a  phantom  by  the  mist,  when  the 
changed  lines  of  his  face  were  no  longer  relentless  and 
they  two  became  little  more  than  voices  and  remem 
bered  presences  to  each  other,  she  began  to  find  him 
indeed  unchanged.  Even  his  voice  had  in  an  hour 
curiously  lost  that  hurting  strangeness.  As  she  listened 
she  became  absent,  almost  drowsy  with  memories  of 
that  far  night  when  his  voice  was  quite  the  same  and 
their  hands  had  trembled  together — with  such  pre 
science  that  through  all  the  years  her  hand  was  to  feel 
the  groping  of  his. 

Yet  awkward  enough  was  that  first  half-hour  of 
their  sitting  side  by  side  in  the  night,  on  the  wide  piazza 
of  his  old  home.  Before  them  the  lawn  stretched 
unbroken  to  the  other  big  house,  where  Nancy  had 
wondered  her  way  to  womanhood.  Empty  now  it  was, 
darkened  as  those  years  of  her  dreaming  girlhood  must 
be  to  the  present.  Should  she  enter  it,  she  knew  the 
house  would  murmur  with  echoes  of  other  days;  there 
would  be  the  wraith  of  the  girl  she  once  was  flitting  as 
of  old  through  its  peopled  rooms. 

And  out  there  actually  before  her  was  the  stretch  of 
lawn  where  she  had  played  games  of  tragic  pretense 
with  the  imperious,  dreaming  boy.  Vividly  there  came 
back  that  late  afternoon  when  the  monster  of  Bernal's 
devising  had  frightened  them  for  the  last  time — when 
in  a  sudden  flash  of  insight  they  had  laughed  the  thing 
away  forever  and  faced  each  other  with  a  certain  half- 
joyous,  half-foolish  maturity  of  understanding.  One 
day  long  after  this  she  had  humorously  bewailed  to 
Bernal  the  loss  of  their  child's  faith  in  the  Gratcher. 
He  had  replied  that,  as  an  institution,  the  Gratcher  was 


246  THE  SEEKER 

imperishable — that  it  was  brute  humanity's  instinctive 
negation  to  the  incredible  perfections  of  life;  that  while 
the  child's  Gratcher  was  not  the  man's,  the  latter  was 
yet  of  the  same  breed,  however  it  might  be  refined  by 
the  subtleties  of  maturity:  that  the  man,  like  the  child, 
must  fashion  some  monster  of  horror  to  deter  him 
when  he  hears  God's  call  to  live. 

She  had  not  been  able  to  understand,  nor  did  she 
now.  She  was  looking  out  to  the  two  trees  where  once 
her  hammock  had  swung — to  the  rustic  chair,  now  fall 
ing  apart  from  age,  from  which  Bernal  had  faced  her 
that  last  evening.  Then  with  a  start  she  was  back  in 
the  present.  Nancy  of  the  old  days  must  be  shut  fat 
in  the  old  house.  There  she  might  wander  and  wonder 
endlessly  among  the  echoes  and  the  half-seen  faces,  but 
never  could  she  come  forth;  over  the  threshold  there 
could  pass  only  the  wife  of  Allan  Linford. 

Quick  upon  this  realisation  came  a  sharp  fear  of  the 
man  beside  her — a  fear  born  of  his  hand's  hold  upon 
hers  when  they  had  met.  She  shrank  under  the  mem 
ory  of  it,  with  a  sudden  instinct  of  the  hunted.  Then 
from  her  new  covert  of  reserve  she  dared  to  peer  cau 
tiously  at  him,  seeking  to  know  how  great  was  her  peril 
— to  learn  what  measure  of  defense  would  best  insure 
her  safety — recognising  fearfully  the  traitor  in  her  own 
heart. 

Their  first  idle  talk  had  died,  and  she  noted  with  new 
alarm  that  they  had  been  silent  for  many  minutes. 
This  could  not  safely  be — this  insidious,  barrier- 
destroying  silence.  She  seemed  to  hear  his  heart  beat 
ing  high  from  his  own  sense  of  peril.  But  would  he 
help  her  ?  Would  he  not  rather  side  with  that  wretched 
traitor  within  her,  crying  out  for  the  old  days — would 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN          247 

he  not  still  be  the  proud  fool  who  would  suffer  no  man's 
law  but  his  own  ?  She  shivered  at  the  thought  of  his 
nearness — of  his  momentous  silence — of  his  treacher 
ous  ally. 

She  stirred  in  her  chair  to  look  in  where  Clytie  bus 
tled  between  kitchen  and  dining-room.  Her  move 
ment  aroused  him  from  his  own  abstraction.  For  a 
breathless  stretch  of  time  she  was  frozen  to  inertness  by 
sheer  terror.  Would  that  old  lawless  spirit  utter  new 
blasphemies,  giving  fearful  point  to  them  now  ?  Would 
the  old  eager  hand  come  again  upon  hers  with  a  boy's 
pleading  and  a  man's  power?  And  what  of  her  own 
secret  guilt  ?  She  had  cherished  the  memory  of  him  and 
across  space  had  responded  to  him  through  that  impe 
rious  need  of  her  heart.  Swiftly  in  this  significant 
moment  she  for  the  first  time  saw  herself  with  critical 
eyes — saw  that  in  her  fancied  security  she  had  unwit 
tingly  enthroned  the  hidden  traitor.  More  and  more 
poignant  grew  her  apprehension  as  she  felt  his  eyes 
upon  her  and  divined  that  he  was  about  to  speak.  With 
a  little  steadying  of  the  lips,  with  eyes  that  widened  at 
him  in  the  dim  light,  she  waited  for  the  sound  of  his 
voice — waited  as  one  waits  for  something  "terrible  and 
dear" — the  whirlwind  that  might  destroy  utterly,  or 
pass — to  leave  her  forever  exulting  in  a  new  sense  of 
power  against  elemental  forces. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  smoked,  Nance?" 

She  stared  stupidly.  So  tense  had  been  her  strain 
that  the  words  were  mere  meaningless  blows  that  left  her 
quivering.  He  thought  she  had  not  heard. 

"Would  you  mind  my  pipe — and  this  very  mild 
mixture?" 

She  blessed  him  for  the  respite. 


248  THE  SEEKER 

"Smoke,  of  course!"  she  managed  to  say. 

She  watched  him  closely,  still  alert,  as  he  stuffed  the 
tobacco  into  his  pipe-bowl  from  a  rubber  pouch.  Then 
he  struck  the  match  and  in  that  moment  she  suffered 
another  shock.  The  little  flame  danced  out  of  the  dark 
ness,  and  wavering,  upward  shadows  played  over  a  face 
of  utter  quietness.  The  relaxed  shoulders  drooped  side 
ways  in  the  chair,  the  body  placidly  sprawled,  one 
crossed  leg  gently  waving.  The  shaded  eye  surveyed 
some  large  and  tranquil  thought — and  in  that  eye  the 
soul  sat  remote,  aloof  from  her  as  any  star. 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair  with  a  long,  stealthy 
breath  of  relief — a  relief  as  cold  as  stone.  She  had  not 
felt  before  that  there  was  a  chill  in  the  wide  sweetness  of 
the  night.  Now  it  wrapped  her  round  and  slowly, 
with  a  soft  brutality,  penetrated  to  her  heart. 

The  silence  grew  too  long.  With  a  shrugging  effort 
she  surmounted  herself  and  looked  again  toward  the 
alien  figure  looming  unconcerned  in  the  gloom.  A 
warm,  super-personal  sense  of  friendliness  came  upon 
her.  Her  intellect  awoke  to  inquiries.  She  began  to 
question  him  of  his  days  away,  and  soon  he  was  talking 
freely  enough,  between  pulls  of  his  pipe. 

"You  know,  Nance,  I  was  a  prodigal — only  when  I 
awoke  I  had  no  father  to  go  to.  Poor  grandad!  What 
a  brutal  cub  I  was !  That  has  always  stuck  in  my  mind. 
I  was  telling  you  about  that  cold  wet  night  in  Denver. 
I  had  found  a  lodging  in  the  police  station.  There 
were  others  as  forlorn — and  Nance — did  you  ever  real 
ise  the  buoyancy  of  the  human  mind?  It's  sublime. 
We  rejected  ones  sat  there,  warming  ourselves,  chatting, 
and  pretty  soon  one  man  found  there  were  thirteen  of  us. 
You  would  have  thought  that  none  of  them  could  fear 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN         249 

bad  luck — worse  luck — none  of  them  could  have  been 
more  dismally  situated.  But,  do  you  know  ?  most  of 
those  fellows  became  nervous — as  apprehensive  of  bad 
luck  as  if  they  had  been  pampered  princes  in  a  time  of 
revolution.  I  was  one  of  the  two  that  volunteered  to 
restore  confidence  by  bringing  in  another  man. 

"We  found  an  undersized,  insignificant-looking  chap 
toddling  aimlessly  along  the  street  a  few  blocks  away 
from  the  station.  We  grappled  with  him  and  hustled 
him  back  to  the  crowd.  He  slept  with  us  on  the  floor, 
and  no  one  paid  any  further  attention  to  him,  except 
to  remark  that  he  talked  to  himself  a  good  bit.  He  and 
I  awoke  earliest  next  morning.  I  asked  him  if  he  was 
hungry  and  he  said  he  was.  So  I  bought  two  fair  break 
fasts  with  the  money  I'd  saved  for  one  good  one,  and  we 
started  out  of  town.  This  chap  said  he  was  going  that 
way,  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  find  a  certain  friend 
of  mine — a  chap  named  Hoover.  The  second  day  out 
I  discovered  that  this  queer  man  was  the  one  who'd 
been  turning  Denver  upside  down  for  ten  days,  healing 
the  halt  and  the  blind.  He  was  running  away  because 
he  liked  a  quieter  life." 

He  stopped,  laughing  softly,  as  if  in  remembrance — 
until  she  prompted  him. 

"Yes,  he  said,  ' Father'  had  commanded  him  to  go 
into  the  wilderness  to  fast.  He  was  always  talking 
familiarly  with  'Father/  as  we  walked.  So  I  stayed 
by  him  longer  than  I  meant  to — he  seemed  so  helpless — 
and  I  happened  at  that  time  to  be  looking  for  the  true 
God." 

"Did  you  find  him,  Bernal?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"In  this  strange  man?" 


250  THE  SEEKER 

"In  myself.  It's  the  same  old  secret,  Nance,  that 
people  have  been  discovering  for  ages — but  it  is  a  secret 
only  until  after  you  learn  it  for  yourself.  The  only 
true  revelation  from  God  is  here  in  man — in  the  human 
heart.  I  had  to  be  years  alone  to  find  it  out,  Nance — 
I'd  had  so  much  of  that  Bible  mythology  stuffed  into 
me — but  I  mustn't  bore  you  with  it." 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  know,  Bernal — you  don't  dream  how 
greatly  I  need  at  this  moment  to  believe  something — 
more  than  you  ever  did  I" 

"It's  simple,  Nance.  It's  the  only  revelation  in 
which  the  God  of  yesterday  gives  willing  place  to  the 
better  God  of  to-day — only  here  does  the  God  of  to-day 
say,  'Thou  shalt  have  no  other  God  before  me  but  the 
God  of  to-morrow  who  will  be  more  Godlike  than  I. 
Only  in  this  way  can  we  keep  our  God  growing  always 
a  little  beyond  us — so  that  to-morrow  we  shall  not  find 
ourselves  surpassing  him  as  the  first  man  you  would  meet 
out  there  on  the  street  surpasses  the  Christian  God  even 
in  the  common  virtues.  That  was  the  fourth  dimen 
sion  of  religion  that  I  wanted,  Nance- — faith  in  a  God 
that  a  fearless  man  could  worship." 

He  lighted  his  pipe  again,  and  as  the  match  blazed 
up  she  saw  the  absent  look  still  in  his  eyes.  By  it  she 
realised  how  far  away  from  her  he  was — realised  it 
with  a  little  sharp  sense  of  desolation.  He  smoked 
a  while  before  speaking. 

"  Out  there  in  the  mountains,  Nance,  I  thought  about 
these  things  a  long  time — the  years  went  before  I  knew 
it.  At  first  I  stayed  with  this  healing  chap,  only  after 
a  while  he  started  back  to  teach  again  and  they  found 
him  dead.  He  believed  he  had  a  mission  to  save  the 
world,  and  that  he  would  live  until  he  accomplished  it. 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN          251 

But  there  he  was,  dead  for  want  of  a  little  food.  Then 
I  stayed  a  long  time  alone — until  I  began  to  feel  that  I, 
too,  had  something  for  the  world.  It  began  to  burn  in 
my  bones.  I  thought  of  him,  dead  and  the  world  not 
caring  that  he  hadn't  saved  it — not  even  knowing  it  was 
lost.  But  I  kept  thinking — a  man  can  be  so  much  more 
than  himself  when  he  is  alone — and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  saw  at  least  two  things  the  world  needed  to  know 
— two  things  that  would  teach  men  to  stop  being 
cowards  and  leaners." 

Her  sympathy  was  quick  and  ardent. 

"Oh,  Bernal,"  she  said  warmly,  "you  made  me 
believe  when  you  believed  nothing — and  now,  when  I 
need  it  above  all  other  times,  you  make  me  believe 
again!  And  you've  come  back  with  a  message!  How 
glorious!" 

He  smiled  musingly 

"I  started  with  one,  Nance — one  that  had  grown  in 
me  all  those  years  till  it  filled  my  life  and  made  me  put 
away  everything.  I  didn't  accept  it  at  first.  It  found 
me  rebellious— wanting  to  live  on  the  earth.  Then 
there  came  a  need  to  justify  myself — to  show  that  I  was 
not  the  mere  vicious  unbeliever  poor  grandad  thought 
me.  And  so  I  fought  to  give  myself  up — and  I  won.  I 
found  the  peace  of  the  lone  places." 

His  voice  grew  dreamy — ceased,  as  if  that  peace  were 
indeed  too  utter  for  words.  Then  with  an  effort  he 
resumed : 

"But  after  a  while  the  world  began  to  rumble  in  my 
ears.  A  man  can't  cut  himself  off  from  it  forever.  God 
has  well  seen  to  that!  As  the  message  cleared  in  my 
mind,  there  grew  a  need  to  give  it  out.  This  seemed 
easy  off  there.  The  little  puzzles  that  the  world  makes 


252  THE  SEEKER 

so  much  of  solved  themselves  for  me.  I  saw  them  to  be 
puzzles  of  the  world's  own  creating — all  artificial — all 
built  up — fashioned  clumsily  enough  from  man's  brute 
fear  of  the  half-God,  half-devil  he  has  always  made  in 
his  own  image. 

"But  now  that  I'm  here,  Nance,  I  find  myself  already 
a  little  bewildered.  The  solution  of  the  puzzles  is  as 
simple  as  ever,  but  the  puzzles  themselves  are  more 
complex  as  I  come  closer  to  them — so  complex  that  my 
simple  answer  will  seem  only  a  vague  absurdity." 

He  paused  and  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her — felt  that  he 
had  turned  from  his  abstractions  to  look  at  her  more 
personally. 

"Even  since  meeting  you,  Nance,"  he  went  on  with 
an  odd,  inward  note  in  his  voice,  "I've  been  wondering 
if  Hoover  could  by  some  chance  have  been  right.  When 
I  left,  Hoover  said  I  was  a  fool — a  certain  common 
variety  of  fool." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you're  not — at  least,  not  the  common 
kind.  I  dare  say  that  a  man  must  be  a  certain  kind  of 
fool  to  think  he  can  put  the  world  forward  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  I  think  he  must  be  a  fool  to  assume  that  the 
world  wants  truth  when  it  wants  only  to  be  assured  that 
it  has  already  found  the  truth  for  itself.  The  man  who 
tells  it  what  it  already  believes  is  never  called  a  fool — 
and  perhaps  he  isn't.  Indeed,  I've  come  to  think  he  is 
less  than  a  fool — that  he's  a  mere  polite  echo.  But  oh, 
Bernal,  hold  to  your  truth!  Be  the  simple  fool  and 
worry  the  wise  in  the  cages  they  have  built  around 
themselves." 

She  was  leaning  eagerly  forward,  forgetful  of  all  save 
that  her  starved  need  was  feasting  royally. 

"Don't  give  up;  don't  parrot  the  commoner  fool's 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN          253 

conceits  back  to  him  for  the  sake  of  his  solemn  approval. 
Let  those  of  his  kind  give  him  what  he  wants,  while 
you  meet  those  who  must  have  more.  I'm  one  of  them, 
Bernal.  At  this  moment  I  honestly  don't  know  whether 
I'm  a  bad  woman  or  a  good  one.  And  I'm  frightened — 
I'm  so  defenseless!  Some  little  soulless  circumstance 
may  make  me  decisively  good  or  bad — and  I  don't 
want  to  be  bad!  But  give  me  what  I  want — I  must 
have  that,  regardless  of  what  it  makes  me." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  then  at  last  spoke : 

"I  used  to  think  you  were  a  rebel,  Nance.  Your 
eyes  betrayed  it,  and  the  corners  of  your  mouth  went  up 
the  least  little  bit,  as  if  they'd  go  further  up  before  they 
went  down — as  if  you'd  laugh  away  many  solemn 
respectabilities.  But  that's  not  bad.  There  are  more 
things  to  laugh  at  than  are  dreamed  of.  That's 
Hoover's  entire  creed,  by  the  way." 

She  remembered  the  name  from  that  old  tale  of 
Caleb  Webster's. 

"Is — is  this  friend  of  yours — Mr.  Hoover — in  good 
health?" 

"Fine — weighs  a  hundred  and  eighty.  He  and  I 
have  a  ranch  on  the  Wimmenuche — only  Hoover's 
been  doing  most  of  the  work  while  I  thought  about 
things.  I  see  that.  Hoover  says  one  can't  do  much 
for  the  world  but  laugh  at  it.  He  has  a  theory  of  his 
own.  He  maintains  that  God  set  this  planet  whirling, 
then  turned  away  for  a  moment  to  start  another  uni 
verse  or  something.  He  says  that  when  the  Creator 
glances  back  at  us  again,  to  find  this  poor,  scrubby  little 
earth-family  divided  over  its  clod,  the  strong  robbing 
the  weak  in  the  midst  of  plenty  for  all — enslaving  them 
to  starve  and  toil  and  fight,  spending  more  for  war  than 


L'.YI  TnK    SKKKKR 

would  keep  the  entire  fami.y  in  luxury;  that  when  God 
looks  closer,  in  liis  ama/emenl,  ;ind  finds  that,  next  to 
j^recd,  the  ma  tier  of  worshipping  I  liiri  lias  made  most  of 
the;  war  and  o! her  d«-\  iltry  the  hatred  and  persecution 
;uid  killing  junorijr  all  the.  little  brothers  he  will  lau;rh 
aloud  before  lie  reflects,  and  this  little;  ballful  of  funny, 
passionate  inseets  will  be  blown  to  bits.  He  says  if  the 
world  eoines  lo  ;in  end  in  his  lifetime,  he  will  know  God 
has  happened  to  look  this  way,  and  perhaps  overheard 
a  bishop  say  something  vastly  important  about  Apos 
tolic  sin-cession  or  the;  validity  of  the  Anglican  Orders 
or  Transubstanliation  or  'communion  in  two  kinds' 
or  something.  lie  insists  that  a  sense  of  humour  is  our 
only  salvation  thai  only  those  will  be  saved  who  hap 
pen  to  be  laughing  for  the  same  reason  that  God  laughs 

when  He  looks  at  us  -that  the  little  Mohammedans 
and  ChristUUlfl  and  things  will  be  burned  for  their 
blasphemy  of  believing  God  not  wise  and  ^ood  enough 
to  save  them  all,  Mohammedan  and  Christian  alike, 
ihoii^h  not  thinking  excessively  well  of  ei  I  her;  flint  only 
those  Ijiu^hin^  at  the  whole  gttry  nonsense  will  «^o  info 

everlasting  life  by  reason  of  their  superior  faith  in  God." 

"Of  course  (.hat's  plausible,  and  yet  it's  radical. 
Hoover's  father  was  a  bishop,  and  I  think  Hoover  is  just 
a  bit  narrow  from  early  training.  He  can'! .see  that  lofs 
of  people  who  haven't  a.  vestige  of  humour  a. re  neverfhe- 
less  worth  saving.  I  a.dmil  I  ha  I.  :;;i\in^  fhem  will  be  a 
thankless  task.  God  won't  be  able  to  take  very  much 
pleasure  in  it,  but  in  strict  justice  he  will  do  it  even 
if  Hoover  does  regard  it  as  a  piece  of  extravagant 

sentimentality/1 

A  little  laler  she  went  in.  She  left  him  tfa/in«j  far- 
off  info  the  ni^ht,  filled  with  his  message,  dull  to  mem- 


THE  REASON  OF  A  WOMAN          255 

ory  on  the  very  scene  that  evoked  in  her  own  heart  so 
nuieli  from  the  old  days.  And  as  she  went  she  laughed 
inwardly  at  a  eertain  consternation  the  woman  of  her 
could  not  wholly  put  down;  for  she  had  Mindly  hurled 
herself  against  a  wall — the  wall  of  his  message.  But  it 
was  funny,  and  the  message  chained  her  interest.  She 
could,  she  thought,  strengthen  his  resolution  to  give  it 
out — help  him  in  a  thousand  ways. 

As  she  fell  asleep  the  thought  of  him  hovered  and 
drifted  on  her  heart  softly,  as  darkness  rests  on  tired 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  REMORSE  OF  WONDERING  NANCY 

SHE  awoke  to  the  sun,  glad-hearted  and  made  newly 
buoyant  by  one  of  those  soundless  black  sleeping- 
nights  that  come  only  to  the  town-tired  when  they  have 
first  fled.  She  ran  to  the  glass  to  know  if  the  restoration 
she  felt  might  also  be  seen.  With  unbiassed  calculation 
the  black-fringed  lids  drew  apart  and  one  hand  pushed 
back  of  the  temple,  and  held  there,  a  tangled  skein  of 
hair  that  had  thrown  the  dusk  of  a  deep  wood  about  her 
eyes.  Then,  as  she  looked,  came  the  little  dreaming 
smile  that  unfitted  critic  eyes  for  their  office;  a  smile 
that  wakened  to  a  laugh  as  she  looked — a  little  woman 
ish  chuckle  of  confident  joy,  as  one  alone  speaking 
aloud  in  an  overflowing  moment. 

An  hour  later  she  was  greeting  Bernal  where  the  sun 
washed  through  the  big  room. 

"Young  life  sings  in  me!"  she  said,  and  felt  his  light 
ening  eyes  upon  her  lips  as  she  smiled. 

There  were  three  days  of  it — days  in  which,  how 
ever,  she  grew  to  fear  those  eyes,  lest  they  fall  upon  her 
in  judgment.  She  now  saw  that  his  eyes  had  changed 
most.  They  gave  the  face  its  look  of  absence,  of  dream 
ing  awkwardness.  They  had  the  depth  of  a  hazy  sky 
at  times,  then  cleared  to  a  coldly  lucid  glance  that  would 
see  nothing  ever  to  fear,  within  or  without;  that  would 

256 


REMORSE  OF  WONDERING  NANCY    257 

hide  no  falseness  nor  yet  be  deceived  by  any — a  deadly 
half-shut,  appraising  coolness  that  would  know  false 
from  true,  even  though  they  mated  amicably  and  dis- 
tractingly  in  one  mind. 

The  effect  of  this  glance  which  she  found  upon  her 
self  from  time  to  time  was  to  make  Nancy  suspect  her 
self — to  question  her  motives  and  try  her  defenses.  To 
her  amazement  she  found  these  latter  weak  under 
Bernal's  gaze,  and  there  grew  in  her  a  tender  remorse 
for  the  injustice  she  had  done  her  husband.  From  lit 
tle  pricking  suspicions  on  the  first  day  she  came  on  the 
last  to  conviction.  It  seemed  that  being  with  Bernal 
had  opened  her  eyes  to  Allan's  worth.  She  had  narrowly, 
flippantly  misjudged  a  good  man — good  in  all  essentials. 
She  was  contrite  for  her  unwifely  lack  of  abnegation. 
She  began  to  see  herself  and  Allan  with  Bernal's  eyes: 
she  was  less  than  she  had  thought — he  was  more. 
Bernal  had  proved  these  things  to  her  all  unconsciously. 
Now  her  heart  was  flooded  with  gratitude  for  his  simple, 
ready,  heartfelt  praise  of  his  brother — of  his  unfailing 
good-temper,  his  loyalty,  his  gifts,  his  modesty  so  often 
distressed  by  outspoken  admiration  of  his  personal 
graces.  She  listened  and  applauded  with  a  heart  that 
renewed  itself  in  all  good  resolves  of  devotion.  Even 
when  Bernal  talked  of  himself,  he  made  her  feel  that 
she  had  been  unjust  to  Allan. 

Little  by  little  she  drew  many  things  from  him — the 
story  of  his  journeyings  and  of  his  still  more  intricate 
mental  wanderings.  And  it  thrilled  her  to  think  he 
had  come  back  with  a  message — even  though  he  already 
doubted  himself.  Sometimes  he  would  be  jocular 
about  it  and  again  hot  with  a  passion  to  express  himself. 

"Nance,"  he  said  on  another  night,  "when  you  have 


258  THE  SEEKER 

a  real  faith  in  God  a  dead  man  is  a  miracle  not  less  than 
a  living — and  a  live  man  dying  is  quite  as  wondrous  as 
a  dead  man  living.  Do  you  know,  I  was  staggered  one 
day  by  discovering  that  the  earth  didn't  give  way  when 
I  stepped  on  it  ?  The  primitive  man  knowing  little  of 
physics  doesn't  know  that  a  child's  hand  could  move 
the  earth  through  space — but  for  a  certain  mysterious 
resistance.  That's  God.  I  felt  him  all  that  day,  at 
every  step,  pushing  the  little  globe  back  under  me — 
counteracting  me — resisting  me — ever  so  gently.  Those 
are  times  when  you  feel  you  must  tell  it,  Nance — when 
the  God-consciousness  comes." 

"Oh,  Bernal,  if  you  could — if  you  could  come  back 
to  do  what  your  grandfather  really  wanted  you  to  do — 
to  preach  something  worth  while ! " 

"I  doubt  the  need  for  my  message,  Nance.  I  need 
for  myself  a  God  that  could  no  more  spare  a  Hottentot 
than  a  Pope — but  I  doubt  if  the  world  does.  No  one 
would  listen  to  me — I'm  only  a  dreamer.  Once  when 
I  was  small  they  gave  me  a  candy  cane  for  Christmas. 
It  was  a  thing  I  had  long  worshipped  in  shop-windows 
— actually  worshipped  as  the  primitive  man  worshipped 
his  idol.  I  can  remember  how  sad  I  was  when  no  one 
else  worshipped  with  me,  or  paid  the  least  attention 
to  my  treasure.  I  suspect  I  shall  meet  the  same 
indifference  now.  And  I  hope  I'll  have  the  same  phi 
losophy.  I  remember  I  brought  myself  to  eat  the  cane, 
which  I  suppose  is  the  primary  intention  regarding 
them — and  perhaps  the  fruits  of  one's  faith  should  be 
eaten  quite  as  practically." 

They  had  sent  no  word  to  Allan,  agreeing  it  were  better 
fun  to  surprise  him.  When  they  took  the  train  together 
on  the  third  day,  the  wife  not  less  than  the  brother 


REMORSE  OF  WONDERING   NANCY    259 

looked  forward  to  a  joyous  reunion  with  him.  And 
now  that  Nancy  had  proved  in  her  heart  the  perverse 
unwifeliness  of  her  old  attitude  and  was  eager  to  begin 
the  symbolic  rites  of  her  atonement,  it  came  to  her  to 
wonder  how  Bernal  would  have  judged  her  had  she 
persisted  in  that  first  wild  impulse  of  rebellion.  She 
wanted  to  see  from  what  degree  of  his  reprobation  she 
had  saved  herself.  She  would  be  circuitous  in  her 
approach. 

"You  remember,  Bernal,  that  night  you  went  away 
— how  you  said  there  was  no  moral  law  under  the  sky 
for  you  but  your  own  ?  " 

He  smiled,  and  above  the  noise  of  the  train  his  voice 
came  to  her  as  his  voice  of  old  came  above  the  noise  of 
the  years. 

"Yes — Nance — that  was  right.  No  moral  law  but 
mine.  I  carried  out  my  threat  to  make  them  all  find 
their  authority  in  me." 

"Then  you  still  believe  yours  is  the  only  authority?" 

"Yes;  it  sounds  licentious  and  horrible,  doesn't  it; 
but  there  are  two  queer  things  about  it — the  first  is  that 
man  quite  naturally  wishes  to  be  decent,  and  the  sec 
ond  is  that,  when  he  does  come  to  rely  wholly  upon  the 
authority  within  himself,  he  finds  it  a  stricter  discipli 
narian  than  ever  the  decalogue  was.  One  needs  only 
ordinary  good  taste  to  keep  the  ten  commandments — 
the  moral  ones.  A  man  may  observe  them  all  and  still 
be  morally  rotten !  But  it's  no  joke  to  live  by  one's  own 
law,  and  yet  that's  all  anybody  has  to  keep  him  right, 
if  we  only  knew  it,  Nance — barring  a  few  human  stat 
utes  against  things  like  murder  and  keeping  one's 
barber-shop  open  on  the  Sabbath — the  ruder  offenses 
which  no  gentleman  ever  wishes  to  commit. 


260  THE  SEEKER 

"And  must  poor  woman  be  ruled  by  her  own  God, 
too?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  it's  not  so  long  ago  that  the  fathers  of  the 
Church  were  debating  in  council  whether  she  had  a 
soul  or  not,  charging  her  with  bringing  sin,  sickness 
and  death  into  the  world." 

"Exactly.  St.  John  Damascene  called  her  ' a  daugh 
ter  of  falsehood  and  a  sentinel  of  hell ' ;  St.  Jerome  came 
in  with  'Woman  is  the  gate  of  the  devil,  the  road  to 
iniquity,  the  sting  of  the  scorpion';  St.  Gregory,  I 
believe,  considered  her  to  have  no  comprehension  of 
goodness;  pious  old  Tertullian  complimented  her  with 
corrupting  those  whom  Satan  dare  not  attack;  and  then 
there  was  St.  Chrysostom — really  he  was  much  more 
charitable  than  his  fellow  Saints — it  always  seemed  to 
me  he  was  not  only  more  humane  but  more  human — 
more  interested,  you  might  say.  You  know  he  said, 
'  Woman  is  a  necessary  evil,  a  domestic  peril,  a  deadly 
fascination,  a  painted  ill.'  It  always  seemed  to  me  St. 
Chrysostom  had  a  past.  But  really,  I  think  they  all 
went  too  far.  I  don't  know  woman  very  well,  but  I 
suspect  she  has  to  find  her  moral  authority  where  man 
finds  his — within  herself." 

"You  know  what  made  rne  ask — a  little  woman  in 
town  came  to  see  Allan  not  long  ago  to  know  if  she 
mightn't  leave  her  husband — she  had  what  seemed  to 
her  sufficient  reason." 

"I  imagine  Allan  said  'no.'' 

"He  did.   Would  you  have  advised  her  differently?" 

"Bless  you,  no.  I'd  advise  her  to  obey  her  priest. 
The  fact  that  she  consulted  him  shows  that  she 
has  no  law  of  her  own.  St.  Paul  said  this  wise 


REMORSE  OF  WONDERING  NANCY    261 

and  deep  thing:  'I  know  and  am  persuaded  by  the 
Lord  Jesus  that  there  is  nothing  unclean  of  itself; 
but  to  him  that  esteemeth  anything  unclean,  to  him  it 
is  unclean!'" 

"Then  it  lay  in  her  own  view  of  it.  If  she  had  felt 
free  to  go,  she  would  have  done  right  to  go." 

"Naturally." 

"Yet  Allan  talked  to  her  about  the  sanctity  of  the 
home." 

"I  doubt  if  the  sanctity  of  the  home  is  maintained  by 
keeping  unwilling  mates  together,  Nance.  I  can 
imagine  nothing  less  sanctified  than  a  home  of  that 
sort — peopled  by  a  couple  held  together  against  the 
desire  of  either  or  both.  The  willing  mates  need  no 
compulsion,  and  they're  the  ones,  it  seems  to  me,  that 
have  given  the  home  its  reputation  for  sanctity.  I  never 
thought  much  about  divorce,  but  I  can  see  that  much 
at  once.  Of  course,  Allan  takes  the  Church's  attitude, 
which  survives  from  a  time  when  a  woman  was 
bought  and  owned;  when  the  God  of  Moses  classed 
her  with  the  ox  and  the  ass  as  a  thing  one  must  not 
covet." 

"You  really  think  if  a  woman  has  made  a  failure  of 
her  marriage  she  has  a  right  to  break  it." 

"That  seems  sound  as  a  general  law,  Nance — better 
for  her  to  make  a  hundred  failures,  for  that  matter, 
than  stay  meekly  in  the  first  because  of  any  superstition. 
But,  mind  you,  if  she  suspects  that  the  Church  may, 
after  all,  have  succeeded  in  tying  up  the  infinite  with 
red-tape  and  sealing-wax — believes  that  God  is  a  large, 
dark  notary-public  who  has  recorded  her  marriage  in  a 
book — she  will  do  better  to  stay.  Doubtless  the  conceit 
of  it  will  console  her — that  the  God  who  looks  after  the 


262  THE  SEEKER 

planets  has  an  eye  on  her,  to  see  that  she  makes  but  one 
guess  about  so  uncertain  a  thing  as  a  man." 

"Then  you  would  advise " 

"  No,  I  wouldn't.  The  woman  who  has  to  be  advised 
should  never  take  advice.  I  dare  say  divorce  is  quite  as 
hazardous  as  marriage,  though  possibly  most  people 
divorce  with  a  somewhat  riper  discretion  than  they 
marry  with.  But  the  point  is  that  neither  marriage  nor 
divorce  can  be  considered  a  royal  road  to  happiness,  and 
a  woman  ought  to  get  her  impetus  in  either  case  from 
her  own  inner  consciousness.  I  should  call  divorcing 
by  advice  quite  as  silly  as  marrying  by  it." 

"But  it  comes  at  last  to  her  own  law  in  her  own 
heart?" 

"When  she  has  awakened  to  it — when  she  honestly 
feels  it.  God's  law  for  woman  is  the  same  as  for  man — 
and  he  has  but  two  laws  for  both  that  are  universal  and 
unchanging:  The  first  is,  they  are  bound  at  all  times 
to  desire  happiness;  the  second  is,  that  they  can  be 
happy  only  by  being  wise — which  is  what  we  sometimes 
mean  when  we  say  'good/  but  of  course  no  one  knows 
what  wisdom  is  for  all,  nor  what  goodness  is  for  all, 
because  we  are  not  mechanical  dolls  of  the  same  pat 
tern.  That's  why  I  reverence  God — the  scheme  is  so 
ingenious — so  productive  of  variety  in  goodness  and 
wisdom.  Probably  an  evil  marriage  is  as  hard  to  be 
quit  of  as  any  vice.  People  persist  long  after  the 
sanctity  has  gone — because  they  lack  moral  courage. 
Hoover  was  quite  that  way  with  cigarettes.  If  some 
one  could  only  have  made  Jim  believe  that  God  had 
joined  him  to  cigarettes,  and  that  he  mustn't  quit  them 
or  he'd  shatter  the  foundations  of  our  domestic  integrity 
— he'd  have  died  in  cheerful  smoke — very  soon  after  a 


REMORSE  OF  WONDERING  NANCY    263 

time  when  he  says  I  saved  his  life.  All  he  wanted  was 
some  excuse  to  go  on  smoking.  Most  people  are  so — 
slothful-souled.  But  remember,  don't  advise  your 
friend  in  town.  Her  asking  advice  is  a  sign  that  she 
shouldn't  have  it.  She  is  not  of  the  coterie  that  Paul 
describes — if  you  don't  mind  Paul  once  more — '  Happy 
is  he  that  condemneth  not  himself  in  that  which  he 
alloweth.'" 

There  had  come  to  the  woman  a  vast  influx  of  dignity 
— a  joyous  increase  in  the  volume  of  that  new  feeling 
that  called  to  her  husband.  She  would  have  gone  back, 
but  one  of  the  reasons  would  have  been  because  she 
thought  it  "right" — because  it  was  what  the  better 
world  did !  But  nowT — ah !  now — she  was  going  unham 
pered  by  that  compulsion  which  galls  even  the  best. 
She  was  free  to  stay  away,  but  of  her  own  glad,  loyal 
will  she  was  going  back  to  the  husband  she  had  treated 
unjustly,  judged  by  too  narrow  a  standard. 

"Allan  will  be  so  astonished  and  delighted,"  she  said, 
when  the  coupe  rolled  out  of  the  train-shed. 

She  remembered  now  with  a  sort  of  pride  the  fine, 
unflinching  sternness  with  which  he  had  condemned 
divorce.  In  a  man  of  principles  so  staunch  one  might 
overlook  many  surface  eccentricities. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  FLEXIBLE  MIND  OF  A  PLEASED  HUSBAND 

As  they  entered  the  little  reception-room  from  the 
hall,  the  doors  of  the  next  room  were  pushed  apart  and 
they  saw  Allan  bowing  out  Mrs.  Talwin  Covil,  a  meek, 
suppressed,  neutral-tinted  woman,  the  inevitable  femi 
nine  corollary  of  such  a  man  as  Cyrus  Browett,  whose 
only  sister  she  was. 

The  eyes  of  Nancy,  glad  with  a  knowing  gladness, 
were  quick  for  Allan's  face,  resting  fondly  there  during 
the  seconds  in  which  he  was  changing  from  the  dead 
astonishment  to  live  recognition  at  sight  of  Bernal. 
During  the  shouts,  the  graspings,  pokings,  nudgings, 
the  pumping  of  each  other's  arms  that  followed,  Nancy 
turned  to  greet  Mrs.  Covil,  who  had  paused  before  her. 

"Do  sit  down  a  moment  and  tell  me  things,"  she 
urged,  "while  those  boys  go  back  there  to  have  it  out!" 

Thus  encouraged,  Mrs.  Covil  dropped  into  a  chair, 
seeming  not  loath  to  tell  those  things  she  had,  while 
Nancy  leaned  back  and  listened  duteously  for  a  per 
functory  ten  minutes.  Her  thoughts  ran  ahead  to 
Allan — and  to  Bernal — as  children  will  run  little  jour 
neys  ahead  of  a  slow-moving  elder. 

Then  suddenly  something  that  the  troubled  little 
woman  was  saying  fixed  her  attention,  pulling  up  her 
wandering  thoughts  with  a  jerk. 

264 


A  HUSBAND'S  FLEXIBLE  MIND       205 

" and  the  Doctor  asked  me,  my  dear,  to  treat  it 

quite  confidentially,  except  to  bother  Cyrus.  But,  I'm 
sure  he  would  wish  you  to  know.  Of  course  it  is  a 
delicate  matter —  I  can  readily  understand,  as  he 
says,  how  the  public  would  misconstrue  the  Doctor's 
words  and  apply  them  generally — forgetting  that  each 
case  requires  a  different  point  of  view.  But  with  Har 
old  it  is  really  a  perfectly  flagrant  and  dreadful  case  of 
mismating — due  entirely  to  the  poor  boy's  thoughtless 
chivalry — barely  twenty-eight,  mind  you — as  if  a  man 
nowadays  knows  his  mind  at  all  well  before  thirty-five. 
Of  course,  divorce  is  an  evil  that,  broadly  speaking, 
threatens  the  sanctity  of  our  home  life — no  one  under 
stands  that  better  than  your  husband — and  re-marriage 
after  divorce  is  usually  an  outrageous  scandal — one, 
indeed,  altogether  too  common — sometimes  I  wonder 
what  we're  coming  to,  it  seems  to  be  done  so  thought 
lessly — but  individual  instances  are  different — '  excep 
tions  prove  the  rule/  you  know,  as  the  old  saying  goes. 
Now  Harold  is  ready  to  settle  down,  and  the  girl  is  of 
excellent  family  and  all  that — quite  the  social  and 
moral  brace  he  needs,  in  fact." 

Nancy  was  attentive,  yet  a  little  puzzled. 

"But — you  speak  of  your  son,  Harold — is  he  not 
already  married?" 

"That's  it,  my  dear.  You  know  what  a  funny, 
bright,  mischievous  boy  Harold  is — even  a  little  deli- 
ciously  wild  at  times — doubtless  you  read  of  his  mar 
riage  when  it  occurred — how  these  newspapers  do  relish 
anything  of  the  sort — she  was  a  theatrical  young  woman 
— what  they  call  a  'show  girl/  I  believe.  Humph! — 
with  reason,  I  must  say!  Of  all  the  egregious  and 
inveterate  showiness!  My  dear,  she  is  positively  a 


266  THE   SEEKER 

creature!  Oh,  if  they'd  only  invent  a  monocle  that 
would  let  a  young  man  pierce  the  glamour  of  the  foot 
lights.  I  pledge  you  my  word,  she's — but  never  mind 
that!  Harold  was  a  thoughtless,  restless  boy — not  bad, 
you  know,  but  heedless.  Why,  he  was  quite  the  same 
about  business.  He  began  to  speculate,  and  of  course, 
being  brother  Cyrus's  nephew,  his  advantage  was  con 
siderable.  But  he  suddenly  declared  he  wouldn't  be  a 
broker  any  more — and  you'd  never  guess  his  absurd 
reason:  simply  because  some  stock  he  held  or  didn't 
hold  went  up  or  down  or  something  on  a  rumour  in  the 
street  that  Mr.  Russell  Sage  was  extremely  ill!  He 
said  that  this  brought  him  to  his  senses.  He  says  to 
me,  '  Mater,  I've  not  met  Mr.  Sage,  you  know,  but  from 
what  I  hear  of  him  it  would  be  irrational  to  place  myself 
in  a  position  where  I  should  have  to  experience  emotion 
of  any  sort  at  news  of  the  old  gentleman's  taking-off. 
An  event  so  agreeable  to  the  natural  order  of  God's 
providence,  so  plausible,  so  seemly,  should  not  be 
endowed  with  any  arbitrary  and  artificial  significance, 
especially  of  a  monetary  character — one  must  be  able 
to  view  it  absolutely  without  emotion  of  any  sort,  either 
of  regret  or  rejoicing — one  must  remain  conscientiously 
indifferent  as  to  when  this  excellent  old  gentleman 
passes  on  to  the  Golden  Shore'-  — but  you  know  the 
breezy  way  in  which  Harold  will  sometimes  talk.  Only 
now  he  seems  really  sobered  by  this  new  attachment 

"But  if  he  is  already  married " 

"Yes,  yes — if  you  can  call  it  married — a  ceremony 
performed  by  one  of  those  common  magistrates — quite 
without  the  sanction  of  the  Church — but  all  that  is 
past,  and  he  is  now  ready  to  marry  one  who  can  be  a 
wife  to  him — only  my  conscience  did  hurt  me  a  little. 


A  HUSBAND'S  FLEXIBLE  MIND       267 

and  brother  Cyrus  said  to  me,  '  You  see  Linford  and  tell 
him  I  sent  you.  Linford  is  a  man  of  remarkable  breadth, 
of  rare  flexibility/" 

"  Yes,  and  of  course  Allan  was  emphatically  discour 
aging."  Again  she  was  recalling  the  fervour  with 
which  he  had  declared  himself  on  this  point  on  that  last 
day  when  he  actually  made  her  believe  in  him. 

"Oh,  the  Doctor  is  broad!  He  is  what  I  should  call 
adaptable.  He  said  by  all  means  to  extricate  Harold 
from  this  wretched  predicament,  not  only  on  account  of 
the  property  interests  involved,  but  on  account  of  his 
moral  and  spiritual  welfare;  that,  while  in  spirit  he 
holds  deathlessly  to  the  indissolubility  of  the  marriage 
tie,  still  it  is  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  God  ever 
joined  Harold  to  a  person  so  much  his  inferior,  and 
that  we  may  look  forward  to  the  real  marriage — that 
on  which  the  sanctity  of  the  home  is  truly  based — when 
the  law  has  freed  him  from  this  boyish  entanglement. 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  feel  so  relieved  to  know  that  my  boy  can 
have  a  wife  from  his  own  class — and  still  have  it  right 
up  there — with  Him,  you  know!"  she  concluded  with 
an  upward  glance,  as  Nancy  watched  her  with  eyes 
grown  strangely  quiet,  almost  steely — watched  her  as 
one  might  watch  an  ant.  She  had  the  look  of  one  whose 
will  had  been  made  suddenly  to  stand  aside  by  some 
great  inner  tumult. 

When  her  caller  had  gone  she  dropped  back  into  the 
chair,  absently  pulling  a  glove  through  the  fingers  of 
one  hand — her  bag  and  parasol  on  the  floor  at  her  feet. 
One  might  have  thought  her  on  the  point  of  leaving 
instead  of  having  just  come.  The  shadows  were 
deepening  in  the  corners  of  the  room  and  about  her 
half-shut  eyes. 


268  THE  SEEKER 

A  long  time  she  listened  to  the  animated  voices  of  the 
brothers.  At  last  the  doors  were  pushed  apart  and  they 
came  out,  Allan  with  his  hand  on  Bernal's  shoulder. 

"  There's  your  bag — now  hurry  upstairs — the  maid 
will  show  you  where." 

As  Bernal  went  out,  Nancy  looked  up  at  her  husband 
with  a  manner  curiously  quiet. 

"Well,  Nance —  He  stepped  to  the  door  to  see 

if  Bernal  was  out  of  hearing —  "  Bernal  pleases  me 
in  the  way  he  talks  about  the  old  gentleman's  estate. 
Either  he  is  most  reasonable,  or  I  have  never  known  my 
true  power  over  men." 

Her  face  was  inscrutable.  Indeed,  she  only  half 
heard. 

"Mrs.  Covil  has  been  telling  me  some  of  your  broader 
views  on  divorce." 

The  words  shot  from  her  lips  with  the  crispness  of 
an  arrow,  going  straight  to  the  bull's-eye. 

He  glanced  quickly  at  her,  the  hint  of  a  frown  drawing 
about  his  eyes. 

"Mrs.  Covil  should  have  been  more  discreet.  The 
authority  of  a  priest  in  these  matters  is  a  thing  of  deli 
cate  adjustment — the  law  for  one  may  not  be  the  law 
for  all.  These  are  not  matters  to  gossip  of." 

"So  it  seems.  I  was  thinking  of  your  opposite  coun 
sel  to  Mrs.  Eversley." 

"There — really,  you  know  I  read  minds,  at  times — 
somehow  I  knew  that  would  be  the  next  thing  you'd 
speak  of." 

"Yes?" 

"The  circumstances  are  entirely  different — I  may 
add  that — that  any  intimation  of  inconsistency  will  be 
very  unpleasing  to  me — very!" 


A  HUSBAND'S   FLEXIBLE   MIND        269 

"  I  can  see  that  the  circumstances  are  different — the 
Eversleys  are  not  what  you  would  call  *  important  fac 
tors'  in  the  Church — and  besides — that  is  a  case  of  a 
wife  leaving  her  husband." 

"Nance — I'm  afraid  you're  not  pleasing  me — if  I 
catch  your  drift.  Must  I  point  out  the  difference — the 
spiritual  difference?  That  misguided  woman  wanted 
to  desert  her  husband  merely  because  he  had  hurt  her 
pride — her  vanity — by  certain  alleged  attentions  to 
other  women,  concerning  the  measure  of  which  I  had 
no  knowledge.  That  was  a  case  where  the  cross  must 
be  borne  for  the  true  refining  of  that  dross  of  vanity 
from  her  soul.  Her  husband  is  of  her  class,  and  her 
life  with  him  will  chasten  her.  While  here — what  have 
we  here?" 

He  began  to  pace  the  floor  as  he  was  wont  to  do  when 
he  prepared  a  sermon. 

"Here  we  have  a  flagrant  example  of  what  is  nothing 
less  than  spiritual  miscegenation — that's  it! — why  didn't 
I  think  of  that  phrase  before — spiritual  miscegenation. 
A  rattle-brained  boy,  with  the  connivance  of  a  common 
magistrate,  effects  a  certain  kind  of  alliance  with  a  per 
son  inferior  to  him  in  every  point  of  view — birth,  breed 
ing,  station,  culture,  wealth — a  person,  moreover,  who 
will  doubtless  be  glad  to  relinquish  her  so-called  rights 
for  a  sum  of  money.  Can  that,  I  ask  you,  be  called  a 
marriage  f  Can  we  suppose  an  all-wise  God  to  have 
joined  two  natures  so  ill-adapted,  so  mutually  exclusive, 
so  repellent  to  each  other  after  that  first  glamour  is  past. 
Really,  such  a  supposition  is  not  only  puerile  but  irrever 
ent.  It  is  the  conventional  supposition,  I  grant,  and 
theoretically,  the  unvarying  supposition  of  the  Church; 
but  God  has  given  us  reasoning  powers  to  use  fear- 


270  THE  SEEKER 

lessly — not  to  be  kept  superstitiously  in  the  shackles  of 
any  tradition  whatsoever.  Why,  the  very  Church 
itself  from  its  founding  is  an  example  of  the  wisdom  of 
violating  tradition  when  it  shall  seem  meet — it  has 
always  had  to  do  this." 

"I  see,  Allan — every  case  must  be  judged  by  itself; 
every  marriage  requires  a  special  ruling — 

"Well — er — exactly — only  don't  get  to  fancying  that 
you  could  solve  these  problems.  It's  difficult  enough 
for  a  priest." 

"Oh,  I'm  positive  a  mere  woman  couldn't  grapple 
with  them — she  hasn't  the  mind  to!  All  she  is  capable 
of  is  to  choose  who  shall  think  for  her." 

"And  of  course  it  would  hardly  do  to  announce  that 
I  had  counselled  a  certain  procedure  of  divorce  and 
re-marriage — no  matter  how  flagrant  the  abuse,  nor 
how  obvious  the  spiritual  equity  of  the  step.  People  at 
large  are  so  little  analytical." 

"'Flexible,'  Mr.  Browett  told  his  sister  you  were. 
He  was  right — you  arc  flexible,  Allan — more  so  than  I 
ever  suspected." 

"Nance — you  please  me — you  are  a  good  girl.  Now 
I'm  going  up  to  Bernal.  Bernal  certainly  pleases  me. 
Of  course  I  shall  do  the  handsome  thing  by  him  if  he 
acts  along  the  lines  our  talk  has  indicated." 

She  still  sat  in  the  falling  dusk,  in  the  chair  she  had 
taken  two  hours  before,  when  Aunt  Bell  came  in, 
dressed  for  dinner. 

"Mercy,  child!     Do  you  know  how  late  it  is?" 

"What  did  you  say,  Aunt  Bell?" 

"I  say  do  you  know  how  late  it  is  ?" 

"Oh— not  too  late!" 

"Not  too  late— for  what?" 


A  HUSBAND'S  FLEXIBLE  MIND       271 

There  was  a  pause,  then  she  said:  "Aunt  Bell,  when 
a  woman  comes  to  make  her  very  last  effort  at  self- 
deception,  why  does  she  fling  herself  into  it  with  such 
abandon — such  pretentious  flourishes  of  remorse — 
and  things  ?  Is  it  because  some  under  layer  of  her  soul 
knows  it  will  be  the  last  and  will  have  it  a  thorough 
test  ?  I  wonder  how  much  of  an  arrant  fraud  a  woman 
may  really  be  to  herself,  even  in  her  surest,  happiest 
moments." 

"There  you  are  again,  wondering,  wondering — 
instead  of  accepting  things  and  dressing  for  dinner. 
Have  you  seen  Allan?" 

"Oh,  yes — I've  been  seeing  him  for  three  days — 
through  a  glass,  darkly." 

Aunt  Bell  flounced  on  into  the  library,  trailing  some 
thing  perilously  near  a  sniff. 

Bernal  came  down  the  stairs  and  stood  in  the  door. 

"Well,  Nance!"  He  went  to  stand  before  her  and 
she  looked  up  to  him.  There  was  still  light  enough  to 
see  his  eyes — enough  to  see,  also,  that  he  was  embar 
rassed. 

"Well-  I've  had  quite  a  talk  with  Allan."  He 
laughed  a  little  constrained,  uneasy  laugh,  looking 
quickly  at  her  to  see  if  she  might  be  observing  him. 
"He's  the  same  fine  old  chap,  isn't  he?"  Quickly  his 
eyes  again  sought  her  face.  "Yes,  indeed,  he's  the 
same  old  boy — a  great  old  Allan — only  he  makes  me 
feel  that  I  have  changed,  Nance." 

She  arose  from  her  chair,  feeling  cramped  and  restless 
from  sitting  so  long. 

"I'm  sure  you  haven't  changed,  Bernal." 

"Oh,  I  must  have!" 

tie  was  looking  at  her  very  closely  through  the  dusk. 


272  THE  SEEKER 

"Yes,  we  had  an  interesting  talk/'  he  said  again. 

He  reached  out  to  take  one  of  her  hands,  which  he 
held  an  instant  in  both  his  own.  "He's  a  rare  old 
Allan,  Nance!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS  OF  THE  GREAT 
MACHINE 

FOR  three  days  the  brothers  were  inseparable.  There 
were  so  many  ancient  matters  to  bring  forward  of  which 
each  could  remember  but  a  half;  so  many  new  ones,  of 
which  each  must  tell  his  own  story.  And  there  was  a 
matter  of  finance  between  them  that  had  been  brought 
forward  by  Allan  without  any  foolish  delay.  Each  of 
them  spoke  to  Nancy  about  it. 

"Bernal  has  pleased  me  greatly/'  said  her  husband. 
"He  agrees  that  Grandfather  Delcher  could  not  have 
been  himself  when  he  made  that  will — being  made  as  it 
was  directly  after  he  sent  Bernal  off.  He  finds  it 
absurd  that  the  old  man,  so  firm  a  Christian,  should 
have  disinherited  a  Christian,  one  devoted  to  the  minis 
try  of  Jesus,  for  an  unbeliever  like  Bernal.  It  is  true,  I 
talked  to  him  in  this  strain  myself,  and  I  cannot  deny 
that  I  wield  even  a  greater  influence  over  men  than 
over  women.  I  dare  say  I  could  have  brought  Bernal 
around  even  had  he  been  selfish  and  stubborn.  By 
putting  a  proposition  forward  as  a  matter  of  course, 
one  may  often  induce  another  to  accept  it  as  such, 
whereas  he  might  dispute  it  if  it  were  put  forward  as  at 
all  debatable.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  required  no 
talking  to;  he  accepted  my  views  readily.  The  boy 

273 


274  THE  SEEKER 

doesn't  seem  to  know  the  value  of  money.  I  really  believe 
he  may  decide  to  make  over  the  whole  of  the  property 
to  me.  That  is  what  I  call  a  beautiful  unselfishness. 
But  I  shall  do  handsomely  by  him — probably  he  can 
use  some  money  in  that  cattle  business.  I  had  thought 
first  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  but  doubtless  half  that 
will  be  wiser.  I  shall  insist  upon  his  taking  at  least 
half  that.  He  will  find  that  unselfishness  is  a  game 
two  can  play  at." 

Nancy  had  listened  to  this  absently,  without  com 
ment.  Nor  had  Bernal  moved  her  to  speech  when  he 
said,  "You  know,  Allan  is  such  a  sensitive  old  chap — 
you  wouldn't  guess  how  sensitive.  His  feelings  were 
actually  hurt  because  Fd  kept  him  out  of  grandad's 
money  all  these  years.  He'd  forgotten  that  I  didn't 
know  I  was  doing  it.  Of  course  the  old  boy  was  think 
ing  what  he'd  have  done  in  my  place — but  I  think  I  can 
make  it  right  with  him — I'm  sure  now  he  knows  I 
didn't  mean  to  wrong  him." 

Yet  during  this  speech  he  had  shot  furtive  little  ques 
tioning  looks  at  her  face,  as  if  to  read  those  thoughts  he 
knew  she  would  not  put  into  words. 

But  she  only  smiled  at  Bernal.  Her  husband,  how 
ever,  found  her  more  difficult  than  ever  after  com 
municating  his  news  to  her.  He  tried  once  to  imagine 
her  being  dissatisfied  with  him  for  some  reason.  But 
this  attempt  he  abandoned.  Thereafter  he  attributed 
her  coldness,  aloofness,  silence,  and  moodiness  to  some 
nervous  malady  peculiar  to  the  modern  woman.  Ber- 
nal's  presence  kept  him  from  noting  how  really  pro 
nounced  and  unwavering  her  aversion  had  become. 

Nor  did  Bernal  note  her  attitude.  Whatever  he  may 
have  read  in  Allan  at  those  times  when  the  look  of  cold 


WHEELS  OF  THE  GREAT  MACHINE    275 

appraisement  was  turned  full  upon  him,  he  had  come 
to  know  of  his  brother's  wife  only  that  she  was  Nancy  of 
the  old  days,  strangely  surviving  to  greet  him  and  be 
silent  with  him,  or  to  wonder  with  him  when  he  came 
in  out  of  that  preposterous  machine  of  many  wheels  that 
they  called  the  town.  No  one  but  Nancy  saw  anything 
about  it  to  wonder  at. 

To  Bernal,  after  his  years  in  the  big  empty  places,  it 
was  a  part  of  all  the  world  and  of  all  times  compacted 
in  a  small  space.  One  might  see  in  it  ancient  Jerusalem, 
Syria,  Persia,  Rome  and  modern  Babylon — with  some 
thing  still  peculiar  and  unclassifiable  that  one  would 
at  length  have  to  call  New  York.  And  to  make  it  more 
absorbing,  the  figures  were  always  moving.  Where  so 
many  were  pressed  together  each  was  weighted  by  a 
thousand  others — the  rich  not  less  than  the  poor;  each 
was  stirred  to  quick  life  and  each  was  being  visibly  worn 
down  by  the  ceaseless  friction. 

When  he  had  walked  the  streets  for  a  week,  he  saw  the 
city  as  a  huge  machine,  a  machine  to  which  one  might 
not  even  deliver  a  message  without  becoming  a  part  of 
it — a  wheel  of  it.  It  was  a  machine  always  readjusting, 
always  perfecting,  always  repairing  itself — casting  out 
worn  or  weak  parts  and  taking  in  others — ever  replacing 
old  wheels  with  new  ones,  and  never  disdaining  any  new 
wheel  that  found  its  place — that  could  give  its  cogs  to 
the  general  efficiency,  consenting  to  be  worn  down  by 
the  unceasing  friction. 

Looking  down  Broadway  early  one  evening — a  shin 
ing  avenue  of  joy — he  thought  of  the  times  when  he 
had  gazed  across  a  certain  valley  of  his  West  and 
dreamed  of  bringing  a  message  to  this  spot. 

Against  the  sky  many  electric  signs  flamed  garishly. 


276  THE  SEEKER 

Beneath  them  were  the  little  grinding  wheels  of  the 
machine — satisfied,  joyous,  wisely  sufficient  unto  them 
selves,  needing  no  message — least  of  all  the  simple  old 
truth  he  had  to  give.  He  tried  to  picture  his  message 
blazing  against  the  sky  among  the  other  legends:  from 
where  he  stood  the  three  most  salient  were  the  names  of 
a  popular  pugilist,  a  malt  beverage  and  a  theatre.  The 
need  of  another  message  was  not  apparent. 

So  he  laughed  at  himself  and  went  down  into  the 
crowd  foregathered  in  ways  of  pleasure,  and  there  he 
drank  of  the  beer  whose  name  was  flaunted  to  the  sim 
ple  stars.  Truly  a  message  to  this  people  must  be  put 
into  a  sign  of  electric  bulbs;  into  a  phonograph  to  be 
listened  to  for  a  coin,  with  an  automatic  banjo  accom 
paniment  ;  or  it  must  be  put  upon  the  stage  to  be  acted 
or  sung  or  danced!  Otherwise  he  would  be  a  wheel 
rejected — a  wheel  ground  up  in  striving  to  become  a 
part  of  the  machine  at  a  place  where  no  wheel  was 
needed. 

For  another  experience  cooling  to  his  once  warm 
hopes,  the  second  day  of  his  visit  Allan  had  taken  him 
to  his  weekly  Ministers'  Meeting — an  affair  less  formid 
able  than  its  title  might  imply. 

A  dozen  or  so  good  fellows  of  the  cloth  had  luncheon 
together  each  Tuesday  at  the  house  of  one  or  another, 
or  at  a  restaurant;  and  here  they  talked  shop  or  not  as 
they  chose,  the  thing  insisted  upon  being  congeniality 
— that  for  once  in  the  week  they  should  be  secure  from 
bores. 

Here  Presbyterian  and  Unitarian  met  on  common 
ground;  Baptist,  Catholic,  Episcopalian,  Congrega- 
tionalist,  Methodist — all  became  brothers  over  the 
soup.  Weekly  they  found  what  was  common  and  help- 


WHEELS  OF  THE  GREAT  MACHINE    277 

ful  to  all  in  discussing  details  of  church  administration, 
matters  of  faith,  methods  of  handling  their  charitable 
funds;  or  the  latest  heresy  trial.  They  talked  of  these 
things  amiably,  often  lightly.  They  were  choice 
spirits  relaxed,  who  might  be  grave  or  gay,  as  they 
listed. 

Their  vein  was  not  too  serious  the  day  Bernal  was  his 
brother's  guest,  sitting  between  the  very  delightful 
Father  Riley  and  the  exciting  Unitarian,  one  Whit- 
taker.  With  tensest  interest  he  listened  to  their  talk. 

At  first  there  was  a  little  of  Delitzsch  and  his  Babel- 
Bible  addresses,  brought  up  by  Selmour,  an  amiable 
Presbyterian  of  shining  bare  pate  and  cheerful  red 
beard,  a  man  whom  scandal  had  filliped  ever  so  coyly 
with  a  repute  of  leanings  toward  Universalism. 

This  led  to  a  brief  discussion  of  the  old  and  new 
theology — Princeton  standing  for  the  old  with  its 
definition  of  Christianity  as  "a  piece  of  information 
given  supernaturally  and  miraculously";  Andover 
standing  for  the  new — so  alleged  Whittaker — with 
many  polite  and  ingenious  evasions  of  this  proposition 
without  actually  repudiating  it. 

The  Unitarian,  however,  was  held  to  be  the  least  bit 
too  literal  in  his  treatment  of  propositions  not  his  own. 

Then  came  Pleydell,  another  high-church  Episco 
palian  who,  over  his  chop  and  a  modest  glass  of  claret, 
declared  earnest  war  upon  the  whole  Hegel-Darwinian- 
Wellhausen  school.  His  method  of  attack  was  to  state 
baldly  the  destructive  conclusions  of  that  school — that 
most  of  the  books  of  the  Old  Testament  are  literary 
frauds,  intentionally  misrepresenting  the  development 
of  religion  in  Israel;  that  the  whole  Mosaic  code  is  a 
later  fabrication  and  its  claim  to  have  been  given  in  the 


278  THE  SEEKER 

wilderness  an  historical  falsehood.  From  this  he 
deduced  that  a  mere  glance  at  the  Bible,  as  the  higher 
critics  explain  it,  must  convince  the  earnest  Christian 
that  he  can  have  no  share  in  their  views.  "  Deprive 
Christianity  of  its  supernatural  basis,"  he  said,  "and 
you  would  have  a  mere  speculative  philosophy.  Deny 
the  Fall  of  Man  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  and  the  Atone 
ment  becomes  meaningless.  If  we  have  not  incurred 
God's  wrath  through  Adam's  disobedience,  we  need 
no  Saviour.  That  is  the  way  to  meet  the  higher  criti 
cism,"  he  concluded  earnestly. 

As  the  only  rule  of  the  association  was  that  no  man 
should  talk  long  upon  any  matter,  Floud,  the  fiery  and 
aggressive  little  Baptist,  hereupon  savagely  reviewed  a 
late  treatise  on  the  ethnic  Trinities,  put  out  by  a  profes 
sor  of  ecclesiastical  history  in  a  New  England  theo 
logical  seminary.  Floud  marvelled  that  this  author 
could  retain  his  orthodox  standing,  for  he  viewed  the 
Bible  as  a  purely  human  collection  of  imperfect  writings, 
the  wonder-stories  concerning  the  birth  and  death  of 
Jesus  as  deserving  no  credence,  and  denied  to  Chris 
tianity  any  supernatural  foundation.  Polytheism  was 
shown  to  be  the  soil  from  which  all  trinitarian  concep 
tions  naturally  spring — the  Brahmanic,  Zoroastrian, 
Homeric,  Plotinian,  as  well  as  the  Christian  trinity— 
the  latter  being  a  Greek  idea  engrafted  on  a  Jewish 
stalk.  The  author's  conclusion,  by  which  he  reached 
"an  undogmatic  gospel  of  the  spirit,  independent  of  all 
creeds  and  forms — a  gospel  of  love  to  God  and  man, 
with  another  Trinity  of  Love,  Truth  and  Freedom," 
was  particularly  irritating  to  the  disturbed  Baptist, 
who  spoke  bitterly  of  the  day  having  dawned  when 
the  Church's  most  dangerous  enemies  were  those 


WHEELS  OF  THE  GREAT  MACHINE  270 

critical  vipers  whom  she  had  warmed  in  her  own 
bosom. 

Suffield,  the  gaunt,  dark,  but  twinkling-eyed  Metho 
dist,  also  sniffed  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ethnic-trinities 
person.  "We  have  an  age  of  substitutes,"  he  remarked. 
"We  have  had  substitutes  for  silk  and  sealskin — very 
creditable  substitutes,  so  I  have  been  assured  by  a  lady 
in  whom  I  have  every  confidence — substitutes  for  coffee, 
for  diamonds — substitutes  for  breakfast  which  are 
widely  advertised — substitutes  for  medicine — and  now 
we  are  coming  to  have  substitutes  for  religion — even 
a  substitute  for  hell!" 

Hereupon  he  told  of  a  book  he  had  read,  also  written 
by  an  orthodox  professor  of  theology,  in  which  the  argu 
ment,  advanced  upon  scriptural  evidence,  was  that  the 
wicked  do  not  go  into  endless  torment,  but  ultimately 
shrivel  and  sink  into  a  state  of  practical  unconscious 
ness.  Yet  the  author  had  been  unable  to  find  any  foun 
dation  for  universalism.  This  writer,  Suffield  explained, 
holds  that  the  curtain  falls  after  the  judgment  on  a  lost 
world.  Nor  is  there  probation  for  the  soul  after  the 
body  dies.  The  Scriptures  teach  the  ruin  of  the  final 
rejecters  of  Christ;  Christ  teaches  plainly  that  they  who 
reject  the  Gospel  will  perish  in  the  endless  darkness  of 
night.  But  eternal  punishment  does  not  necessarily 
mean  eternal  suffering;  hence  the  hypothesis  of  the  soul 
gradually  shrivelling  for  the  sin  of  its  unbelief. 

The  amiable  Presbyterian  sniffed  at  this  as  a  senti 
mental  quibble.  Punishment  ceases  to  be  punishment 
when  it  is  not  felt — one  cannot  punish  a  tree  or  an 
unconscious  soul.  But  this  was  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
Writh  the  fires  out  in  hell,  no  wonder  we  have  an  age  of 
sugar-candy  morality  and  cheap  sentimentalism. 


280  THE  SEEKER 

But  here  the  Unitarian  wickedly  interrupted,  to 
remind  his  Presbyterian  brother  that  his  own  church 
had  quenched  those  very  certain  fires  that  once  burned 
under  the  pit  in  which  lay  the  souls  of  infants  unbap- 
tised. 

The  amiable  Presbyterian,  not  relishing  this,  still 
amiably  threw  the  gauntlet  down  to  Father  Riley,  de 
manding  the  Catholic  view  of  the  future  of  unbaptised 
children. 

The  speech  of  the  latter  was  a  mellow  joy — a  south 
breeze  of  liquid  consonants  and  lilting  vowels  finely 
articulated.  Perhaps  it  was  not  a  little  owing  to  the 
good  man's  love  for  what  he  called  "oiling  the  rusty 
hinges  of  the  King's  English  with  a  wee  drop  of  the 
brogue";  but,  if  so,  the  oil  was  so  deftly  spread  that  no 
one  word  betrayed  its  presence.  Rather  was  his  whole 
speech  pervaded  by  this  soft  delight,  especially  when 
his  cherubic  face,  his  pink  cheeks  glistening  in  certain 
lights  with  a  faint  silvery  stubble  of  beard,  mellowed  with 
his  gentle  smile.  It  was  so  now,  even  when  he  spoke  of 
God's  penalties  for  the  souls  of  reprobate  infants. 

"All  theologians  of  the  Mother  Church  are  agreed," 
replied  the  gracious  father,  "first,  that  infants  dying 
unbaptised  are  excluded  from  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 
Second,  that  they  will  not  enjoy  the  beatific  vision  out 
side  of  heaven.  Third,  that  they  will  arise  with  adults 
and  be  assembled  for  judgment  on  the  last  day.  And, 
fourth,  that  after  the  last  day  there  will  be  but  two 
states,  namely:  a  state  of  supernatural  and  supreme 
felicity  and  a  state  of  what,  in  a  wide  sense,  we  may 
call  damnation." 

Purlingly  the  good  man  went  on  to  explain  that 
damnation  is  a  state  admitting  of  many  degrees;  and 


WHEELS  OF  THE  GREAT  MACHINE    281 

that  the  unbaptised  infant  would  not  suffer  in  that  state 
the  same  punishment  as  the  adult  reprobate.  While 
the  latter  would  suffer  positive  pains  of  mind  and  body 
for  his  sins,  the  unfortunate  infant  would  doubtless 
suffer  no  pain  of  sense  whatever.  As  to  their  being 
exempt  from  the  pain  of  loss,  grieving  over  their  exclu 
sion  from  the  sight  of  God  and  the  glories  of  His  King 
dom,  it  is  more  commonly  held  that  they  do  not  suffer 
even  this;  that  even  if  they  know  others  are  happier  than 
themselves,  they  are  perfectly  resigned  to  God's  will  and 
suffer  no  pain  of  loss  in  regard  to  happiness  not  suited 
to  their  condition. 

The  Presbyterian  called  upon  them  to  witness  that  his 
church  was  thus  not  unique  in  attaining  this  sentimen 
tality  regarding  reprobate  infants. 

Then  little  Floud  cited  the  case  of  still  another  heretic 
within  the  church,  a  professor  in  a  western  Methodist 
university,  who  declared  that  biblical  infallibility  is  a 
superstitious  and  hurtful  tradition;  that  all  the  miracles 
are  mere  poetic  fancies,  incredible  and  untrue — even 
irreverent;  and  that  all  spiritual  truth  comes  to  man 
through  his  brain  and  conscience.  Modern  preaching, 
according  to  the  book  of  this  heretic,  lacks  power 
because  so  many  churches  cling  to  the  tradition  that 
the  Bible  is  infallible.  It  is  the  golden  calf  of  their 
worship;  the  palpable  lie  that  gives  the  ring  of  insin 
cerity  to  all  their  moral  exhortations. 

So  the  talk  flowed  on  until  the  good  men  agreed  that  a 
peculiarity  of  the  time  lay  in  this:  that  large  numbers 
of  ministers  within  the  church  were  publishing  the 
most  revolutionary  heresies  while  still  clinging  to  some 
shred  of  their  tattered  orthodoxy. 

Also  they  decided  that  it  would  not  be  without  inter- 


282  THE  SEEKER 

est  to  know  what  belief  is  held  by  the  man  of  common 
education  and  intelligence — the  man  who  behaves  cor 
rectly  but  will  not  go  to  church. 

Here  Father  Riley  sweetly  reminded  them — "No 
questions  are  asked  in  the  Mother  Church,  gentle 
men,  that  may  not  be  answered  with  authority.  In  your 
churches,  without  an  authority  superior  to  mere  reason, 
destructive  questions  will  be  asked  more  and  more 
frequently." 

Gravely  they  agreed  that  the  church  was  losing  its 
hold  on  the  people.  That  but  for  its  social  and  chari 
table  activities,  its  state  would  be  alarming. 

"  Your  churches!"  Father  Riley  corrected  with  suave 
persistence.  "No  church  can  endure  without  an  infal 
lible  head." 

Again  and  again  during  the  meal  Bernal  had  been 
tempted  to  speak.  But  each  time  he  had  been 
restrained  by  a  sense  of  his  aloofness.  These  men, 
too,  were  wheels  within  the  machine,  each  revolving  as 
he  must.  They  would  simply  pity  him,  or  be  amused. 

More  and  more  acutely  was  he  coming  to  feel  the 
futility,  the  crass,  absurd  presumption  of  what  he  had 
come  back  to  undertake.  From  the  lucid  quiet  of  his 
mountain  haunts  he  had  descended  into  a  vale  where 
antiquated  cymbals  clashed  in  wild  discordance  above 
the  confusing  clatter  of  an  intricate  machinery — 
machinery  too  complicated  to  be  readjusted  by  a  pass 
ing  dreamer.  In  his  years  of  solitude  he  had  grown  to 
believe  that  the  teachers  of  the  world  were  no  longer 
dominated  by  that  ancient  superstition  of  a  super- 
humanly  malignant  God.  He  had  been  prepared  to 
find  that  the  world-ideal  had  grown  more  lofty  in  his 
absence,  been  purified  by  many  eliminations  into  a 


WHEELS  OF  THE  GREAT  MACHINE   283 

God  who,  as  he  had  once  said  to  Nance,  could  no  more 
spare  the  soul  of  a  Hottentot  than  the  soul  of  a  pope. 
Yet  here  was  a  high  type  of  the  priest  of  the  Mother 
Church,  gentle,  Godly,  learned,  who  gravely  and  as 
one  having  authority  told  how  God  would  blight  for 
ever  the  soul  of  a  child  unbaptised,  thus  imputing  to 
Deity  a  regard  for  mechanical  rites  that  would  consti 
tute  even  a  poor  human  father  an  incredible  monster. 

Yet  the  marvel  of  it  seemed  to  him  to  lie  in  this:  that 
the  priest  himself  lived  actually  a  life  of  loving  devotion 
and  sacrifice  in  marked  opposition  to  this  doctrine  of 
formal  cruelty;  that  his  church,  more  successfully  than 
any  other  in  Christendom,  had  met  the  needs  of  human 
ity,  coming  closer  to  men  in  their  sin  and  sickness,  min 
istering  to  them  with  a  deeper  knowledge,  a  more  affec 
tionate  intimacy,  than  any  other.  That  all  these  men  of 
God  should  hold  formally  to  dogmas  belying  the  hu 
maneness  of  their  actual  practise — here  was  the  puz 
zling  anomaly  that  might  well  give  pause  to  any  casual 
message-bringer.  Struggle  as  he  might,  it  was  like  a 
tangling  mesh  cast  over  him — this  growing  sense  of 
his  own  futility. 

Along  with  this  conviction  of  his  powerlessness  there 
came  to  him  a  new  sense  of  reliance  upon  Nancy. 
Unconsciously  at  first  he  turned  to  her  for  sunlight, 
big  views  and  quiet  power,  for  the  very  stimulus  he  had 
been  wont  to  draw  from  the  wide,  high  reaches  of  his 
far-off  valley.  Later,  came  a  conscious  turning,  an 
open-eyed  bringing  of  all  his  needs,  to  lay  them  in  her 
waiting  lap.  Then  it  was  he  saw  that  on  that  first  night 
at  Edom  her  confidence  and  enthusiasm  had  been 
things  he  leaned  upon  quite  naturally,  though  unwit 
tingly.  The  knowledge  brought  him  a  vague  unrest. 


284  THE  SEEKER 

Furtive,  elusive  impulses,  borne  to  him  on  the  wings 
of  certain  old  memories — memories  once  resolutely 
put  away  in  the  face  of  his  one,  big  world-desire — now 
came  to  trouble  him. 

It  seemed  that  one  must  forever  go  in  circles.  With 
fine  courage  he  had  made  straight  off  to  toil  up  the  high 
difficult  paths  of  the  ideal.  Never  had  he  consciously 
turned,  nor  even  swerved.  Yet  here  he  was  at  length 
upon  his  old  tracks,  come  again  to  the  wondering  girl. 

Did  it  mean,  then,  that  his  soul  was  baffled — or  did 
it  mean  that  his  soul  would  not  suffer  him  to  baffle  it, 
try  as  he  might  ?  Was  that  girl  of  the  old  days  to  greet 
him  with  her  wondering  eyes  at  the  end  of  every  high 
path  ?  These  and  many  other  questions  he  asked 
himself. 

At  the  close  of  this  day  he  sought  her,  eager  for  the 
light  of  her  understanding  eyes — for  a  certain  waiting 
sympathy  she  never  withheld.  As  she  looked  up  now 
with  a  kind  of  composed  gladness,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  they  two  alone,  out  of  all  the  world,  were  sanely 
quiet.  Silently  he  sank  into  a  chair  near  her  and  they 
sat  long  thus,  feeling  no  need  of  words.  At  last  she 
spoke. 

"Are  you  coming  nearer  to  it,  Bernal?" 

He  laughed. 

"I'm  farther  away  than  ever,  Nance.  Probably 
there's  but  one  creature  in  this  city  to-day  as  out  of 
place  as  I  am.  He's  a  big,  awkward,  country-looking 
dog,  and  he  was  lost  on  Broadway.  Did  you  ever  see 
a  lost  dog  in  a  city  street  ?  This  fellow  was  actually 
in  a  panic,  wholly  demoralised,  and  yet  he  seemed  to 
know  that  he  must  conceal  it  for  his  own  safety.  So 
he  affected  a  fine  air  of  confidence,  of  being  very  busy 


WHEELS  OF  THE  GREAT  MACHINE    285 

about  an  engagement  for  which  he  feared  he  might  be 
late.  He  would  trot  swiftly  along  for  half  a  block, 
then  pause  as  if  trying  to  recall  the  street  number; 
then  trot  a  little  farther,  and  stop  to  look  back  as  if 
the  other  party  to  his  engagement  might  happen  along 
from  that  direction.  It  was  a  splendid  bit  of  acting, 
and  it  deceived  them  all,  in  that  street  of  mutterers 
and  hard  faces.  He  was  like  one  of  them,  busy  and 
hurried,  but  apparently  cool,  capable,  and  ominously 
alert.  Only,  in  his  moments  of  indecision,  his  eyes 
shifted  the  least  bit  nervously,  as  if  to  note  whether 
the  real  fear  he  felt  were  detected,  and  then  I  could 
read  all  his  secret  consternation. 

"I'm  the  same  lost  dog,  Nance.  I  feel  as  he  felt 
every  time  I  go  into  that  street  where  the  poor  crea 
tures  hurry  and  talk  to  themselves  from  sheer  nervous 
fatigue." 

He  ceased  speaking,  but  she  remained  silent,  fear 
ing  lest  she  say  too  little  or  too  much. 

"Nance,"  he  said  presently  with  a  slow,  whimsical 
glance,  "I'm  beginning  to  suspect  that  I'm  even  more 
of  a  fool  than  Hoover  thought  me — and  he  was  rather 
enthusiastic  about  it,  I  assure  you!" 

To  which  she  at  length  answered  musingly: 

"If  God  makes  us  fools,  doubtless  he  likes  to  have 
us  thorough.  Be  a  great  fool,  Bernal.  Don't  be  a 
small  one." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  INEFFECTIVE  MESSAGE 

THE  week  had  gone  while  he  walked  in  the  crowds, 
feeling  his  remoteness;  but  he  knew  at  last  that  he  wa^ 
not  of  the  brotherhood  of  the  zealots;  that  the  very 
sense  of  humour  by  which  he  saw  the  fallacies  of  one 
zealot  prevented  him  from  becoming  another.  He 
lacked  the  zealot's  conviction  of  his  unique  importance, 
yet  one  must  be  such  a  zealot  to  give  a  message  effect 
ively.  He  began  to  see  that  the  world  could  not  be 
lost;  that  whatever  might  be  vital  in  his  own  message 
would,  soon  or  late,  be  delivered  by  another.  The 
time  mattered  not.  Could  he  not  be  as  reposeful,  as 
patient,  as  God? 

In  spite  of  which,  the  impulse  to  speak  his  little  word 
would  recur;  and  it  came  upon  him  stoutly  one  day 
on  his  way  up  town.  As  the  elevated  train  slowly 
rounded  a  curve  he  looked  into  the  open  window  of 
a  room  where  a  gloomy  huddle  of  yellow-faced,  sunken- 
cheeked,  brown-bearded  men  bent  their  heads  over 
busy  sewing-machines.  Nearest  the  window,  full 
before  it,  was  one  that  touched  him — a  young  man 
with  some  hardy  spirit  of  hope  still  enduring  in  his 
starved  face,  some  stubborn  refusal  to  recognise  the 
odds  against  him.  And  fixed  to  his  machine,  where 
his  eyes  might  now  and  then  raise  to  it  from  his  work, 
was  a  spray  of  lilac — his  little  spirit  flaunting  itself 

286 


THE   INEFFECTIVE   MESSAGE         287 

gaily  even  from  the  cross.  The  pathos  of  it  was 
somehow  intensified  by  the  grinding  of  the  wheels 
that  carried  him  by  it. 

The  train  creaked  its  way  around  the  curve — but 
the  face  dreaming  happily  over  the  lilac  spray  in  that 
hopeless  room  stayed  in  his  mind,  coercing  him. 

As  he  entered  the  house,  Nancy  met  him. 

"Do  go  and  be  host  to  those  men.  It's  our  day  for 
the  Ministers'  Meeting,"  she  continued,  as  he  looked 
puzzled,  "and  just  as  they  sat  down  Allan  was  called 
out  to  one  of  his  people  who  is  sick.  Now  run  like 
a  good  boy  and  'tend  to  them." 

So  it  came  that,  while  the  impulse  was  still  strong 
upon  him,  he  went  in  among  the  dozen  amiable,  feeding 
gentlemen  who  were  not  indisposed  to  listen  to  whom 
soever  might  talk — if  he  did  not  bore — which  is  how 
it  befell  that  they  had  presently  cause  to  remark  him. 

Not  at  first,  for  he  mumbled  hesitatingly,  without 
authority  of  manner  or  point  to  his  words,  but  the 
phrase,  "the  fundamental  defect  of  the  Christian 
religion"  caused  even  the  Unitarian  to  gasp  over  his 
glass  of  mineral  water.  His  green  eyes  glittered  pleas 
antly  upon  Bernal  from  his  dark  face  with  its  scraggly 
beard. 

"That's  it,  Mr.  Linford— tell  us  that— we  need  to 
know  that — do  we  not,  gentlemen  ?  " 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Whittaker,"  snapped  the  aggres 
sive  little  Baptist,  "but  doubtless  Mr.  Linford  has 
something  to  say." 

Bernal  remained  unperturbed  by  this.  Very  earn 
estly  he  continued:  "Christianity  is  defective,  judged 
even  by  poor  human  standards;  untrue  by  the  plain 
facts  of  human  consciousness." 


288  THE   SEEKER 

"Ah!  Now  we  shall  learn!"  Eather  Riley  turned 
his  most  gracious  smile  upon  the  speaker. 

"Your  churches  are  losing  their  hold  upon  men 
because  your  religion  is  one  of  separation,  here  and 
hereafter — while  the  one  great  tendency  of  the  age  is 
toward  brotherhood — oneness.  Primitive  man  had 
individual  pride — family  pride,  city  pride,  state  pride, 
national  pride  followed — but  we  are  coming  now  to 
the  only  permissible  pride,  a  world  pride — in  which 
the  race  feels  its  oneness.  We  are  nearly  there;  even 
now  the  spirit  that  denies  this  actual  brotherhood  is 
confined  to  the  churches.  The  people  outside  more 
generally  than  you  dream  know  that  God  does  not  dis 
criminate  among  religions — that  he  has  a  scheme  of 
a  dignity  so  true  that  it  can  no  more  permit  the  loss  of 
one  black  devil-worshipper  than  that  of  the  most  mag 
nificent  of  archbishops." 

He  stopped,  looking  inquiringly — almost  wistfully, 
at  them. 

Various  polite  exclamations  assured  him  of  their 
interest. 

"Continue,  by  all  means,"  urged  Whittaker.  "I 
feel  that  you  will  have  even  Father  Riley  edified  in  a 
moment." 

"The  most  cynical  chap — even  for  a  Unitarian," 
purled  that  good  man. 

Bernal  resumed. 

"Your  God  is  a  tribal  God  who  performed  his  won 
ders  to  show  that  he  had  set  a  difference  between  Israel 
and  Egypt.  Your  Saviour  continues  to  set  the  same 
difference:  Israel  being  those  who  believed  his  claim 
to  Godship;  Egypt  those  who  find  his  evidence  insuf 
ficient.  But  we  humans  daily  practise  better  than 


THE   INEFFECTIVE  MESSAGE          289 

this  preaching  of  retaliation.  The  Church  is  losing 
power  because  your  creeds  are  fixed  while  man,  never 
ceasing  to  grow,  has  inevitably  gone  beyond  them — 
even  beyond  the  teachings  of  your  Saviour  who  threat 
ened  to  separate  father  from  son  and  mother  from 
daughter — who  would  distinguish  sheep  from  goats 
by  the  mere  intellectual  test  of  the  opinion  they  formed 
of  his  miracles.  The  world  to-day  insists  on  moral 
tests — which  Christianity  has  never  done." 

"Ah — now  we  are  getting  at  it,"  remarked  the 
Methodist,  whose  twinkling  eyes  curiously  belied  his 
grimly  solemn  face.  "Who  was  it  that  wished  to 
know  the  belief  of  the  average  unbeliever?" 

"The  average  unbeliever,"  answered  Bernal  promptly, 
"no  longer  feels  the  need  of  a  Saviour — he  knows 
that  he  must  save  himself.  He  no  longer  believes 
in  the  God  who  failed  always,  from  Eden  to  Calvary, 
failed  even  to  save  his  chosen  tribe  by  that  last 
device  of  begetting  a  son  of  a  human  mother  who 
should  be  sacrificed  to  him.  He  no  longer  believes 
that  he  must  have  a  mediator  between  himself  and 
that  God." 

"Really,  most  refreshing,"  chortled  Father  Kiley. 
"More,  more!"  and  he  rapped  for  silence. 

"The  man  of  to-day  must  have  a  God  who  never 
fails.  Disguise  it  as  you  will,  your  Christian  God  was 
never  loved.  No  God  can  be  loved  who  threatens 
destruction  for  not  loving  him.  We  cannot  love  one 
whom  we  are  not  free  not  to  love." 

"WTiere  shall  we  find  this  God— outside  of  Holy 
Writ,"  demanded  Floud,  who  had  once  or  twice  re 
strained  himself  with  difficulty,  in  spite  of  his  amuse 
ment. 


290  THE  SEEKER 

"The  true  God  comes  to  life  in  your  own  conscious 
ness,  if  you  will  clear  it  of  the  blasphemous  precon 
ceptions  imposed  by  Christianity,"  answered  Bernal  so 
seriously  that  no  one  had  the  heart  to  interrupt  him. 
"  Of  course  we  can  never  personify  God  save  as  a  higher 
power  of  self.  Moses  did  no  more;  Jesus  did  no  more. 
And  if  we  could  stop  with  this — be  content  with  saying 
'God  is  better  than  the  best  man* — we  should  have  a 
formula  permitting  endless  growth,  even  as  He  permits 
it  to  us.  God  has  been  more  generous  to  us  than  the 
Church  has  been  to  Him.  While  it  has  limited  Him  to 
that  god  of  bloody  sacrifice  conceived  by  a  barbaric 
Jew,  He  has  permitted  us  to  grow  so  that  now  any  man 
who  did  not  surpass  him  morally,  as  the  scriptures  por 
tray  him,  would  be  a  man  of  inconceivable  malignity. 

"You  see  the  world  has  demonstrated  facts  that  dis 
prove  the  Godship  of  your  God  and  your  Saviour.  We 
have  come,  indeed,  into  a  sense  of  such  certain  brother 
hood  that  we  know  your  hell  is  a  falsity.  We  know 
— a  knowledge  of  even  the  rudiments  of  psychology 
proves — that  there  will  be  a  hell  for  all  as  long  as  one  of 
us  is  there.  Our  human  nature  is  such  that  one  soul 
in  hell  would  put  every  other  soul  there.  Daily  this 
becomes  more  apparent.  We  grow  constantly  more 
sensitive  to  the  pain  of  others.  This  is  the  distinctive 
feature  of  modern  growth — our  increasing  tendency  to 
find  the  sufferings  of  others  intolerable  to  ourselves. 
A  disaster  now  is  felt  around  the  world — we  burn  or 
starve  or  freeze  or  drown  with  our  remote  brothers — 
and  we  do  what  we  can  to  relieve  them  because  we 
suffer  with  them.  It  seems  to  me  the  existence  of  the 
S.  P.  C.  A.  proves  that  hell  is  either  for  all  of  us  or  for 
none  of  us — because  of  our  oneness.  If  the  suffering 


THE   INEFFECTIVE  MESSAGE          291 

of  a  stray  cat  becomes  our  suffering,  do  you  imagine 
that  the  minority  of  the  race  which  Christianity  saves 
could  be  happy  knowing  that  the  great  majority  lay  in 
torment  ? 

"Suppose  but  two  were  left  in  hell — Judas  Iscariot 
and  Herbert  Spencer — the  first  great  sinner  after  Jesus 
and  the  last  of  any  consequence.  One  betrayed  his 
master  and  the  other  did  likewise,  only  with  far  greater 
subtlety  and  wickedness — teaching  thousands  to  dis 
believe  his  claims  to  godhood — to  regard  Christianity 
as  a  crude  compound  of  Greek  mythology  and  Jewish 
tradition — a  thing  built  of  myth  and  fable.  Even  if 
these  two  were  damned  and  all  the  rest  were  saved — 
can  you  not  see  that  a  knowledge  of  their  suffering 
would  embitter  heaven  itself  to  another  hell  ?  Father 
Riley  was  good  enough  to  tell  us  last  week  of  the  state  of 
unbaptised  infants  after  death.  Will  you  please  con 
sider  coldly  the  infinite,  good  God  setting  a  difference 
for  all  eternity  between  two  babies,  because  over  the 
hairless  pate  of  one  a  priest  had  sprinkled  water  and 
spoken  words?  Can  you  not  see  that  this  is  untrue 
because  it  is  absurd  to  our  God-given  senses  of  humour 
and  justice?  Do  you  not  see  that  such  a  God,  in  the 
act  of  separating  those  children,  taking  into  heaven  the 
one  that  had  had  its  little  head  wetted  by  a  good  man, 
and  sending  the  reprobate  into  what  Father  Riley  terms, 
'in  a  wide  sense,  a  state  of  damnation' 

Father  Riley  smiled  upon  him  with  winning  sweetness. 

" do  you  not  see  that  such  a  God  would  be  shamed 

off  his  throne  and  out  of  heaven  by  the  pitying  laugh 
that  would  go  up — even  from  sinners? 

"You  insist  that  the  truth  touching  faith  and  morals 
is  in  your  Bible,  despite  its  historical  inaccuracies.  But 


292  THE   SEEKER 

do  you  not  see  that  you  are  losing  influence  with  the 
world  because  this  is  not  so — because  a  higher  standard 
of  ethics  than  yours  prevails  out  in  the  world — a  demand 
for  a  veritable  fatherhood  of  God  and  a  veritable 
brotherhood  of  man — to  replace  the  caricatures  of 
those  doctrines  that  Christianity  submits." 

"  Our  young  friend  seems  to  think  exceeding  well  of 
human  nature/'  chirped  Father  Riley. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Bernal.  "Isn't  it  droll  that  this 
poor,  fallen  human  nature,  despised  and  reviled,  'con 
ceived  in  sin  and  born  in  iniquity,'  should  at  last  call 
the  Christian  God  and  Saviour  to  account,  weigh  them 
by  its  own  standard,  find  them  wanting,  and  replace 
them  with  a  greater  God  born  of  itself  ?  Is  not  that  an 
eloquent  proof  of  the  living  God  that  abides  in  us  ?  " 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  young  man,  that  human 
nature  has  its  selfish  moments  ?  "  asked  the  high-church 
rector — between  sips  of  claret  and  water. 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  human  nature  has 
any  but  selfish  moments?"  replied  Bernal.  "If  so, 
your  impression  was  incorrect." 

"Really,  Mr.  Linford,  have  you  not  just  been  telling 
us  how  glorious  is  this  nature  of  man " 

"I  know — I  will  explain  to  you,"  he  went  on,  moving 
Father  Riley  to  another  indulgent  smile  by  his  willing 
ness  to  instruct  the  gray-bearded  Congregationalist 
who  had  interrupted. 

"When  I  saw  that  there  must  be  a  hell  for  all  so  long 
as  there  is  a  hell  for  one — even  for  Spencer — I  suddenly 
saw  there  was  nothing  in  any  man  to  merit  the  place — 
unless  it  were  the  ignorance  of  immaturity.  For  I  saw 
that  man  by  the  very  first  law  of  his  being  can  never  have 
any  but  a  selfish  motive.  Here  again  practical  psychol- 


THE   INEFFECTIVE  MESSAGE         293 

ogy  sustains  me.  You  cannot  so  much  as  raise  your 
hand  without  an  intention  to  promote  your  happiness — 
nor  are  you  less  selfish  if  you  give  your  all  to  the  needy 
— you  are  still  equally  doing  that  which  promotes  your 
happiness.  That  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive  is  a  terse  statement  of  a  law  scientifically  demon 
strable.  You  all  know  how  far  more  exquisite  is  the 
pleasure  that  comes  from  giving  than  that  which  comes 
from  receiving.  Is  not  one  who  prefers  to  give  then 
simply  selfish  with  a  greater  wisdom,  a  finer  skill  for  the 
result  desired — his  own  pleasure  ?  The  man  we  call 
good  is  not  less  selfish  than  the  man  we  call  bad — only 
wiser  in  the  ways  that  bring  his  happiness — riper  in 
that  divine  sensitiveness  to  the  feelings  of  his  brother. 
Selfish  happiness  is  equally  a  law  with  all,  though  it 
send  one  of  us  to  thieving  and  another  to  the  cross. 

"Ignorance  of  this  primary  truth  has  kept  the  world 
in  spiritual  darkness — it  has  nurtured  belief  in  sin— in 
a  devil,  in  a  God  that  permits  evil.  For  when  you  tell 
me  that  my  assertion  is  a  mere  quibble — that  it  matters 
not  whether  we  call  a  man  unselfish  or  wisely  selfish — 
you  fail  to  see  that,  when  we  understand  this  truth,  there 
is  no  longer  any  sin.  'Sin '  is  then  seen  to  be  but  a  mis 
taken  notion  of  what  brings  happiness.  Last  night's 
burglar  and  your  bishop  differ  not  morally  but  intel 
lectually — one  knowing  surer  ways  of  achieving  his 
own  happiness,  being  more  sensitive  to  that  oneness  of 
the  race  which  thrills  us  all  in  varying  degrees.  When 
you  know  this — that  the  difference  is  not  moral  but 
intellectual,  self-righteousness  disappears  and  with  it  a 
belief  in  moral  difference — the  last  obstacle  to  the 
realisation  of  our  oneness.  It  is  in  the  church  that  this 
fiction  of  moral  difference  has  taken  its  final  stand. 


294  THE  SEEKER 

"And  not  only  shall  we  have  no  full  realisation  of  the 
brotherhood  of  man  until  this  inevitable,  equal  selfish 
ness  is  understood,  but  we  shall  have  no  rational  con 
ception  of  virtue.  There  will  be  no  sound  morality 
until  it  is  taught  for  its  present  advantage  to  the  in 
dividual,  and  not  for  what  it  may  bring  him  in  a  future 
world.  Not  until  then  will  it  be  taught  effectively  that 
the  well-being  of  one  is  inextricably  bound  up  with  the 
well-being  of  all;  that  while  man  is  always  selfish,  his 
selfish  happiness  is  still  contingent  on  the  happiness  of 
his  brother." 

The  moment  of  coffee  had  come.  The  Unitarian 
lighted  a  black  cigar  and  avidly  demanded  more  rea 
sons  why  the  Christian  religion  was  immoral. 

"Still  for  the  reason  that  it  separates,"  continued 
Bernal,  "separates  not  only  hereafter  but  here.  We 
have  kings  and  serfs,  saints  and  sinners,  soldiers  to  kill 
one  another — God  is  still  a  God  of  Battle.  There  is 
no  Christian  army  that  may  not  consistently  invoke 
your  God's  aid  to  destroy  any  other  Christian  army — 
none  whose  spiritual  guides  do  not  pray  to  God  for  help 
in  the  work  of  killing  other  Christians.  So  long  as  you 
have  separation  hereafter,  you  will  have  these  absurd 
divisions  here.  So  long  as  you  preach  a  Saviour  who 
condemns  to  everlasting  punishment  for  disbelief,  so 
long  you  will  have  men  pointing  to  high  authority  for 
all  their  schemes  of  revenge  and  oppression  here. 

"Not  until  you  preach  a  God  big  enough  to  save  all 
can  you  arouse  men  to  the  truth  that  all  must  be  saved. 
Not  until  you  have  a  God  big  enough  to  love  all  can 
you  have  a  church  big  enough  to  hold  all. 

"An  Indian  in  a  western  town  must  have  mastered 
this  truth.  He  had  watched  a  fight  between  drunken 


THE  INEFFECTIVE  MESSAGE         295 

men  in  which  one  shot  the  other.  He  said  to  me, '  When 
I  see  how  bad  some  of  my  brothers  are,  I  know  how 
good  the  Great  Spirit  must  be  to  love  them  all!" 

"Was — was  he  a  member  of  any  church?"  inquired 
the  amiable  Presbyterian,  with  a  facetious  gleam  in  his 
eyes. 

"I  didn't  ask  him — of  course  we  know  he  wasn't  a 
Presbyterian." 

Hereupon  Father  Riley  and  the  wicked  Unitarian 
both  laughed  joyously.  Then  the  Congregationalist, 
gazing  dreamily  through  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette, 
remarked,  "You  have  omitted  any  reference  to  the 
great  fact  of  Christianity — the  sacrifice  of  the  Son  of 
Man." 

"Very  well,  I  will  tell  you  about  it,"  answered  the 
young  man  quite  earnestly,  whereat  the  Unitarian  fairly 
glowed  with  wicked  anticipations. 

"Let  us  face  that  so-called  sacrifice  honestly.  Jesus 
died  to  save  those  who  could  accept  his  claim  to  god- 
ship — believing  that  he  would  go  to  sit  at  the  right  hand 
of  God  to  judge  the  world.  But  look — an  engineer  out 
here  the  other  day  died  a  horrible  death  to  save  the  lives 
of  a  scant  fifty  people — their  mere  physical  lives — died 
out  of  that  simple  sense  of  oneness  which  makes  us  sel 
fishly  fear  for  the  suffering  of  others — died  without  any 
hope  of  superior  exaltation  hereafter.  Death  of  this 
sort  is  common.  I  would  not  belittle  him  you  call  the 
Saviour — as  a  man  he  is  most  beautiful  and  moving  to 
me — but  that  shall  not  blind  me  to  the  fact  that  the 
sacrificial  element  in  his  death  is  surpassed  daily  by 
common,  dull  humans." 

A  veiled  uneasiness  was  evident  on  the  part  of  his 
listeners,  but  the  speaker  gave  no  heed. 


296  THE  SEEKER 

"This  spectacle  of  sacrifice,  of  devotion  to  others, 
is  needed  as  an  uplift,"  he  went  on  earnestly,  "but 
why  dwell  upon  one  remote — obscured  by  claims  of 
a  God-jugglery  which  belittle  it  if  they  be  true — when 
all  about  you  are  countless  plain,  unpretentious  men 
and  women  dying  deaths  and — what  is  still  greater, — 
living  lives  of  cool,  relentless  devotion  out  of  sheer 
human  love. 

"Preach  this  divineness  of  human  nature  and  you 
will  once  more  have  a  living  church.  Preach  that  our 
oneness  is  so  real  that  the  best  man  is  forever  shackled 
to  the  worst.  Preach  that  sin  is  but  ignorant  selfish 
ness,  less  admirable  than  virtue  only  as  ignorance  is 
less  admirable  than  knowledge. 

"In  these  two  plain  laws — the  individual's  entire 
and  unvarying  selfishness  and  his  ever  -  increasing 
sensitiveness  to  the  sufferings  of  others — there  is  the 
promise  not  of  a  heaven  and  a  hell,  but  of  a  heaven  for 
all — which  is  what  the  world  is  more  and  more  emphati- 
call)  demanding — which  it  will  eventually  produce  even 
here — for  we  have  as  little  sensed  the  possibilities  of 
man's  life  here  as  we  have  divined  the  attributes  of 
God  himself. 

"Once  you  drove  away  from  your  church  the  big 
men,  the  thinkers,  the  fearless — the  souls  God  must 
love  most  truly  were  it  possible  to  conceive  him  setting 
a  difference  among  his  creatures.  Now  you  drive 
away  even  the  merely  intelligent  rabble.  The  average 
man  knows  your  defect — knows  that  one  who  believes 
Christ  rose  from  the  dead  is  not  by  that  fact  the  moral 
superior  of  one  who  believes  he  did  not;  knows, 
indeed,  of  God,  that  he  cannot  be  a  fussy,  vain, 
blustering  creature  who  is  forever  failing  and  forever 


THE   INEFFECTIVE   MESSAGE          297 

visiting  the  punishment  for  his  failures  upon  his 
puppets. 

"This  is  why  you  are  no  longer  considered  a  factor 
in  civilisation,  save  as  a  sort  of  police-guard  upon  the 
very  ignorant.  And  you  are  losing  this  prestige. 
Even  the  credulous  day-labourer  has  come  to  weigh 
you  and  find  you  wanting — is  thrilling  with  his  own 
God-assurance  and  stepping  forth  to  save  himself 
as  best  he  can. 

"  But,  if  you  would  again  draw  man,  heat  him,  weld 
him,  hold  him — preach  Man  to  him,  show  him  his  own 
goodness  instead  of  loading  him  with  that  vicious 
untruth  of  his  conception  in  iniquity.  Preach  to  him 
the  limitless  devotion  of  his  common  dull  brothers  to 
one  another  through  their  sense  of  oneness.  Show 
him  the  common  beautiful,  wonderful,  selfish  self- 
giving  of  humanity,  not  for  an  hour  or  for  a  day,  but 
for  long  hard  life-times.  Preach  the  exquisite  adjust 
ment  of  that  human  nature  which  must  always  seek 
its  own  happiness,  yet  is  slowly  finding  that  that  happi 
ness  depends  on  the  happiness  of  all.  The  lives  of 
daily  crucifixion  without  hope  of  reward  are  abundant 
all  about  you — you  all  know  them.  And  if  once  you 
exploit  these  actual  sublimities  of  human  nature — of 
the  man  in  the  street — no  tale  of  devotion  in  Holy  Writ 
will  ever  again  move  you  as  these  do.  And  when  you 
have  preached  this  long  enough,  then  will  take  place 
in  human  society,  naturally,  spontaneously,  that  great 
thing  which  big  men  have  dreamed  of  doing  with  their 
artificial  devices  of  socialism  and  anarchism.  For 
when  you  have  demonstrated  the  race's  eternal  one 
ness  man  will  be  as  little  tempted  to  oppress,  starve, 
enslave,  murder  or  separate  his  brothers  as  he  is  now 


298  THE   SEEKER 

tempted  to  mutilate  his  own  body.  Then  only  will 
he  love  his  neighbor  as  himself — still  with  a  selfish 
love. 

"Preach  Man  to  man  as  a  discovery  in  Godhood. 
You  will  not  revive  the  ancient  glories  of  your  Church, 
but  you  will  build  a  new  church  to  a  God  for  whom 
you  will  not  need  to  quibble  or  evade  or  apologise. 
Then  you  will  make  religion  the  one  force,  and  you  will 
rally  to  it  those  great  minds  whose  alienation  has  been 
both  your  reproach  and  your  embarrassment.  You 
will  enlist  not  only  the  scientist  but  the  poet — and  all 
between.  You  will  have  a  God  to  whom  all  confess 
instinctively." 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  WOMAN  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PATH 

HE  stopped,  noticing  that  the  chairs  were  pushed 
back.  There  was  an  unmistakeable  air  of  boredom, 
though  one  or  two  of  the  men  still  smoked  thought 
fully.  One  of  these,  indeed — the  high  church  rector — 
even  came  back  with  a  question,  to  the  undisguised 
apprehension  of  several  brothers. 

"You  have  formulated  a  certain  fashion  of  belief, 
Mr.  Linford,  one  I  dare  say  appealing  to  minds  that 
have  not  yet  learned  that  even  reason  must  submit  to 
authority;  but  you  must  admit  that  this  revelation  of 
God  in  the  human  heart  carries  no  authoritative  assur 
ance  of  immortality." 

Bernal  had  been  sitting  in  some  embarrassment,  dis 
mayed  at  his  own  vehemence,  but  this  challenge  stirred 
him. 

"True,"  he  answered,  "but  let  us  thank  God  for 
uncertainty,  if  it  take  the  place  of  Christian  belief  in 
a  sparsely  peopled  heaven  and  a  crowded  hell." 

"Really,    you    know—" 

"I  know  nothing  of  a  future  life;  but  I  prefer  igno 
rance  to  a  belief  that  the  most  heinous  baby  that  ever 
died  in  sin  is  to  languish  in  a  state  of  damnation — even 
'in  a  wide  sense'  as  our  good  friend  puts  it." 

"But,  surely,  that  is  the  first  great  question  of  all 
people  in  all  ages — '  If  a  man  die  shall  he  live  again  ? ' 

299 


300  THE  SEEKER 

"Because  there  has  never  been  any  dignified  con 
ception  of  a  Supreme  Being.  I  have  tried  to  tell  you 
what  my  own  faith  is — faith  in  a  God  wiser  and  more 
loving  than  I  am,  who,  being  so,  has  devised  no  mean 
little  scheme  of  revenge  such  as  you  preach.  A  God 
more  loving  than  my  own  human  father,  a  God  whose 
plan  is  perfect  whether  it  involve  my  living  or  dying. 
Whether  I  shall  die  to  life  or  to  death  is  not  within 
iny  knowledge;  but  since  I  know  of  a  truth  that  the 
God  I  believe  in  must  have  a  scheme  of  worth  and  dignity, 
I  am  unconcerned.  Whether  his  plan  demand  extinc 
tion  or  immortality,  I  worship  him  for  it,  not  holding 
him  to  any  trivial  fancy  of  mine.  God  himself  can  be 
no  surer  of  his  plan's  perfection  than  I  am.  I  call  this 
faith — faith  the  more  perfect  that  it  is  without  condi 
tion,  asking  neither  sign  nor  miracle." 

"And  life  is  so  good  that  I've  no  time  to  whine.  If 
this  ego  of  mine  is  presently  to  become  unnecessary 
in  the  great  Plan,  my  faith  is  still  triumphant.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  the  end,  but  it's  not  so 
important  as  to  know  that  I  am  no  better — only  a  little 
wiser  in  certain  ways — than  yesterday's  murderer. 
Living  under  the  perfect  plan  of  a  perfect  Creator,  I 
need  not  trouble  about  hidden  details  when  so  many 
not  hidden  are  more  vital.  When,  in  some  far-off 
future,  we  learn  to  live  here  as  fully  and  beautifully  as 
we  have  power  to,  I  doubt  not  that  in  the  natural  ways 
of  growth  we  shall  learn  more  of  this  detail  of  life  we 
call  'death' — but  I  can  imagine  nothing  of  less  con 
sequence  to  one  who  has  faith. 

"I  saw  a  stanza  the  other  day  that  tells  it  well: 

"'We  know  not  whence  is  life,  nor  whither  death, 
Know  not  the  Power  that  circumscribes  our  breath, 


THE  END   OF  THE  PATH  301 

But  yet  we  do  not  fear;  what  made  us  men, 
What  gave  us  love,  shall  we  not  trust  again  ?  ' : 

While  quoting  the  lines  his  eyes  had  been  straight 
ahead,  absently  dwelling  upon  the  space  between  the 
slightly  parted  doors  that  gave  into  the  next  room. 
But  even  as  he  spoke,  the  last  line  faltered  and  halted. 
His  glance  slowly  stiffened  out  of  widening  eyes  to 
the  face  it  had  caught  there — a  face  new,  strange, 
mesmeric,  that  all  at  once  enchained  him  soul  and 
body.  With  a  splendid,  reckless  might  it  assailed 
him — left  him  dazed,  deaf,  speechless. 

It  was  the  face  of  Nancy,  for  the  first  time  all  its 
guards  down.  Full  upon  him  flamed  the  illumined 
eyes  that  made  the  face  a  yielding  radiance;  lifted 
a  little  was  the  chin  of  gentle  curves,  the  under  lip 
caught  as  if  in  that  quivering  eagerness  she  no  longer 
breathed — the  face  of  Nancy,  no  longer  wondering, 
Nancy  at  last  compelled  and  compelling.  A  moment 
the  warm  light  flashed  from  each  to  each. 

He  stopped  in  a  sudden  bewilderment,  looking 
blankly,  questioningly  at  the  faces  about  him.  Then 
out  of  the  first  chaos  came  the  sense  of  having  awak 
ened  from  some  long,  quiet  sleep — of  having  suddenly 
opened  his  eyes  upon  a  world  from  which  the  morning 
mists  had  lifted,  to  see  himself — and  the  woman  who 
stood  always  at  the  end  of  that  upward  path — face  to 
face  for  the  first  time.  One  by  one  his  outer  sensa 
tions  returned.  At  first  he  heard  a  blurred  murrrur- 
ing,  then  he  became  aware  that  some  of  the  men  were 
looking  at  him  curiously,  that  one  of  them  had  addressed 
him.  He  smiled  apologetically. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I — I  couldn't  have  been 
listening." 


302  THE  SEEKER 

"I  merely  asked,"  repeated  Floud,  "how  you  expect 
to  satisfy  humanity  with  the  vague  hope  that  you  would 
substitute  for  the  Christian  promise  of  eternal  life." 

He  stared  stupidly  at  the  questioner. 

"I — I  don't  know."  He  passed  a  hand  slowly 
upward  over  his  forehead.  "Really  I  can  hardly 
trouble  about  those  matters — there's  so  much  life  to 
live.  I  think  I  knew  a  moment  ago,  but  I  seem  to 
have  forgotten,  though  it's  doubtless  no  great  loss.  I 
dare  say  it's  more  important  to  be  unafraid  of  life  than 
to  be  unafraid  of  death." 

"You  were  full  of  reasons  a  moment  ago,"  reminded 
Whittaker — "some  of  them  not  uninteresting." 

"Was  I?  Oh,  well,  it's  a  small  matter — I've  some 
how  lost  hold  of  it."  He  laughed  awkwardly.  "It 
seems  to  have  come  to  me  just  now  that  those  who 
study  an  apple  until  it  falls  from  its  stem  and  rots 
are  even  more  foolish  than  those  who  pluck  and  eat." 

Again  he  was  silent,  with  a  great  hidden  impatience 
'for  them  to  be  gone.  But  Whittaker,  the  wicked 
Unitarian,  detained  them  still  a  moment  longer. 

"  How  hardly  we  should  believe  in  a  God  who  saved 
every  one!"  he  breathed  softly  to  the  remains  of  his 
cigar. 

"Humph!  Such  a  God  would  be  a  mere  mush  of 
concession!"  retorted  Floud,  the  Baptist. 

"And  how  true,"  pursued  the  unruffled  Unitarian, 
"that  we  cannot  worship  a  'mere  mush  of  concession' 
— how  true  that  our  God  must  hate  what  we  hate,  and 
punish  what  we  would  punish.  We  might  stomach  a 
God  who  would  save  orthodox  burglars  along  with 
orthodox  bishops,  but  not  one  who  saved  unbaptised 
infants  and  adults  of  unsound  doctrine.  Dear,  dear, 


THE  END   OF  THE  PATH  303 

yes!  We  must  have  a  God  with  a  little  human  spite 
in  Him  or  He  seems  to  be  spineless." 

"A  hopeless  cynic,"  declared  the  soft  voice  of  the 
Catholic — "it's  the  Unitarianism  working  out  of  him, 
mind  you!" 

"So  glad  to  have  met  you!"  continued  the  same 
good  man  to  Bernal.  "Your  words  are  conducive  to 
thought — you're  an  earnest,  decent  lad  at  all  events." 

But  Bernal  scarcely  heard  them  or  identified  the 
speakers.  They  were  to  him  but  so  many  noisy  wheels 
of  the  vast  machine,  each  revolving  as  it  must.  His 
whole  body  seemed  to  send  electric  sparks  of  repulsion 
out  to  them  to  drive  them  away  as  quickly  as  might  be. 
All  his  energies  were  centred  to  one  mighty  impulse. 

At  last  the  door  closed  and  he  stood  alone  with  the 
disordered  table  and  the  pushed  back  chairs,  doggedly 
gathering  himself.  Then  he  went  to  the  doors  and 
with  a  hand  to  each,  pushed  them  swiftly  apart. 

She  stood  at  the  farther  side  of  the  room.  She  seemed 
to  have  fled  there,  and  yet  she  leaned  toward  him 
breathless,  again  with  the  under  lip  caught  fast  in  its 
quivering — helpless,  piteously  helpless.  It  was  this 
that  stayed  him.  Had  she  utterly  shrunk  away,  even 
had  he  found  her  denying,  defiant — the  aroused  man 
had  prevailed.  But  seeing  her  so,  he  caught  at  the 
back  of  a  chair  as  if  to  hold  himself.  Then  he  gazed 
long  and  exultingly  into  the  eyes  yielded  so  abjectly  to 
his.  For  a  moment  it  filled  him  to  see  and  know,  to  be 
certain  that  she  knew  and  did  not  deny.  But  the  man 
in  him  was  not  yet  a  reasoning  man — too  lately  had  he 
come  to  life. 

He  stepped  eagerly  toward  her,  to  halt  only  when 
one  weak  white  hand  faltered  up  with  absurd  pretension 


304  THE  SEEKER 

of  a  power  to  ward  him  off.  Nor  was  it  her  hand  that 
made  him  stop  then.  That  barrier  confessed  its  frail 
ness  in  every  drooping  line.  Again  it  was  the  involun 
tary  submission  of  her  whole  poise — she  had  actually 
leaned  a  little  further  toward  him  when  he  started,  even 
as  her  hand  went  up.  But  the  helpless  misery  in  her 
eyes  was  still  a  defense,  passive  but  sufficient. 

Then  she  spoke  and  his  tension  relaxed  a  little,  the 
note  of  helpless  suffering  in  her  voice  making  him  wince 
and  fall  back  a  step. 

"Bernal,  Bernal,  Bernal!  It  hurts  me  so,  hurts  me 
so !  It's  the  Gratcher — isn't  it  hurting  you,  too  ?  Oh, 
it  must  be!" 

He  retreated  a  little,  again  grasping  the  back  of  the 
chair  with  one  hand,  but  there  was  no  restraint  in  his 
voice. 

"Laugh,  Nance,  laugh!  You  know  what  laughing 
does  to  them!" 

"Not  to  this  one,  Bernal — oh,  not  to  this  one!" 

"But  it's  only  a  Gratcher,  Nance!  I've  been  asleep 
all  these  years.  Now  I'm  awake.  I'm  in  the  world 
again — here,  do  you  understand,  before  you.  And  it's 
a  glad,  good  world.  I'm  full  of  its  life — and  I've  money 
— think  of  that !  Yesterday  I  didn't  know  what  money 
was.  I  was  going  to  throw  it  away — throw  it  away  as 
lightly  as  I  threw  away  all  those  good,  precious  years. 
How  much  it  seems  now,  and  what  fine,  powerful  stuff  it 
is!  And  I,  like  a  sleeping  fool,  was  about  to  let  it  go  at 
a  mere  suggestion  from  Allan." 

He  stopped,  as  if  under  the  thrust  of  a  cold,  keen 
blade. 

"Allan — Allan!"  he  repeated  dazedly  while  the  look 
of  pain  deepened  in  the  woman's  eyes.  He  stared  back 


THE  END   OF  THE  PATH  305 

at  her  dumbly.  Then  another  awakening  became 
visible  in  him  and  he  laughed  awkwardly. 

"It's  funny,  Nance — funny — and  awful!  Do  you 
know  that  not  until  I  spoke  his  name  then  had  a  thought 
of  Allan  come  to  me  ?  Can  you  comprehend  it  ?  I 
can't  now.  But  it's  the  truth.  I  woke  up  too  sud 
denly.  Allan — Allan—  It  sounded  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  recall  some  forgotten  personality.  "Oh, 
Allan!" 

The  last  was  more  like  a  cry.  He  fell  into  the  chair 
by  which  he  had  stood.  And  now  the  woman  erected 
herself,  coming  forward  to  stand  before  him,  her  head 
bowed,  her  hands  convulsively  interlocked. 

"Do  you  see  it  all,  Bernal?  Is  it  plain  now?  Oh, 
how  it  tortured  me — that  last  Gratcher — the  one  we 
make  in  our  own  image  and  yet  make  to  be  perfect.  It 
never  hurt  me  before,  but  now  I  know  why.  It  couldn't 
hurt  me  so  long  as  I  looked  it  straight  in  the  eye — but 
just  now  my  eyes  had  to  fall  before  it,  and  all  in  a  second 
it  was  tearing  me  to  pieces.  That's  the  only  defense 
against  this  last  Gratcher,  Bernal,  to  look  it  in  the  eyes 
unafraid.  And  oh,  it  hurts  so — and  it's  all  my  own 
miserable  fault!" 

"No,  it's  your  goodness,  Nance."  He  spoke  very 
quietly  now.  "Only  the  good  have  a  Gratcher  that 
can't  be  laughed  away.  My  own  was  late  in  coming. 
Your  Gratcher  has  saved  us." 

He  stood  up  and  took  her  unresisting  hands  in  both 
his  own.  They  rested  there  in  peace,  yielding  them 
selves  like  tired  children  to  caring  arms. 

"Now  I  shall  be  healed,"  she  said. 

"It  will  take  me  longer,  Nance.  My  hurt  is  more 
stubborn,  more  complicated.  I  can't  help  it.  Some- 


306  THE  SEEKER 

thing  in  me  resists.  I  see  now  that  I  know  too  much — 
too  much  of  you,  too  much  of— 

She  saw  that  he  must  have  suffered  some  illumination 
upon  Allan.  There  was  a  look  of  bitter  comprehension 
in  his  face  as  he  broke  off.  She  turned  away  from  it. 

When,  an  hour  later,  Allan  came  in,  he  found  them 
chatting  easily  of  the  few  people  of  St.  Antipas  that 
Bernal  had  met.  At  the  moment,  they  were  discussing 
Mrs.  Wyeth,  whose  face,  Bernal  declared,  was  of  a  rare 
perfection.  Nance  turned  to  her  husband. 

"You  must  thank  Bernal,"  she  said,"  for  entertaining 
your  guests  this  afternoon." 

"  He  wouldn't  if  he  knew  what  I  said — or  how  it  must 
have  bored  them.  One  thing,  Nance,  they  won't  meet 
here  again  until  you  swear  I've  gone!" 

"Bernal's  heart  is  right,  even  if  his  theology  doesn't 
always  please  me,"  said  his  brother  graciously,  examin 
ing  some  cards  that  lay  on  the  table.  "I  see  Mrs. 
Wyeth  has  called,"  he  continued  to  Nancy,  looking  up 
from  these. 

"Yes.  She  wanted  me  to  see  her  sister,  poor  Mrs. 
Eversley,  who  is  ill  at  her  house.  I  promised  to  look 
in  to-morrow." 

"I've  just  been  telling  Nance  how  beautiful  I  think 
Mrs.  Wyeth  is,"  said  Bernal.  "She's  rare,  with  that 
face  of  the  low-browed  Greek.  It's  one  of  the  memories 
I  shall  take  back  to  my  Eve-less  Eden." 

"She  is  beautiful,"  said  Nancy.  "Of  course  her 
nose  is  the  least  bit  thin  and  long,  but  it  rather  adds  zest 
to  her  face.  Now  I  must  dress  for  dinner." 

When  Nancy  had  gone,  Bernal,  who  had  been  speak 
ing  with  a  marked  lightness  of  tone,  turned  to  Allan 
with  an  equally  marked  seriousness. 


THE  END   OF  THE  PATH  307 

"Old  chap,  you  know  about  that  money  of  mine — 
of  Grandfather's?' 

Allan  instantly  became  attentive. 

"Of  course,  there's  no  hurry  about  that — you  must 
take  time  to  think  it  over/'  he  answered. 

"But  there  is  hurry!  I  shouldn't  have  waited  so 
long  to  make  up  my  mind. 

"Then  you  have  made  up  your  mind?"  questioned 
his  brother,  with  guarded  eagerness. 

"Definitely.  It's  all  yours,  Allan.  It  will  help 
you  in  what  you  want  to  do.  And  not  having  it  will 
help  me  to  do  what  I  want  to  do — make  it  simpler, 
easier.  Take  it — and  for  God's  sake  be  good  to 
Nancy." 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  you  please  me,  Bernal.  Not 
that  I'm  avid  for  money,  but  it  truly  seems  more  in 
accord  with  what  must  have  been  grandfather's  real 
wish.  And  Nancy — of  course  I  shall  be  good  to  her — 
though  at  times  she  seems  unable  to  please  me." 

There  was  a  sanctified  displeasure  in  his  tone,  as 
he  spoke  of  Nancy.  It  caused  Bernal  to  turn  upon 
him  a  keen,  speculative  eye,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
And  his  next  words  had  to  do  with  matters  tangible. 
"To-morrow  I'll  do  some  of  the  business  that  can 
be  done  here.  Then  I'll  go  up  to  Edom  and  finish 
the  transfers  that  have  to  be  made  there."  After  a 
brief  hesitation,  he  added:  "Try  to  please  her  a  bit, 
Allan.  That's  all." 


CHAPTER  XVI 
IN  WHICH  THE  MIRROR  is  HELD  UP  TO  HUMAN  NATURE 

WHEN,  the  next  day,  Nancy  went  to  pay  her  prom 
ised  visit  to  Mrs.  Eversley,  the  rectory  was  steeped 
in  the  deep  household  peace  of  mid-afternoon.  Both 
Allan  and  Bernal  had  gone  out  soon  after  luncheon, 
while  Aunt  Bell  had  withdrawn  into  the  silence,  there 
to  meditate  the  first  letters  of  the  alphabet  of  the  inex 
pressible,  to  hover  about  the  pleasant  line  that  divides 
the  normal  from  the  subliminal. 

Though  bruised  and  torn,  Nancy  was  still  grimly  up 
right  in  the  eye  of  duty,  still  a  worthy  follower  of  ortho 
dox  ways.  Buried  in  her  own  eventful  thoughts  in  that 
mind-world  where  love  is  born  and  dies,  where  beliefs 
rise  and  perish  but  no  sound  ever  disturbs  the  stillness, 
she  made  her  way  along  the  shaded  side  of  the  street 
toward  the  Wyeth  residence.  Not  until  she  had 
passed  several  doors  beyond  the  house  did  she  recall 
her  errand,  remember  that  her  walk  led  to  a  goal,  that 
she  herself  had  matters  in  hand  other  than  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking. 

Retracing  her  steps,  she  rang  the  bell  and  asked  for 
Mrs.  Eversley.  Before  the  servant  could  reply,  Mrs. 
Wyeth  rustled  prettily  down  the  hall  from  the  library 
at  the  back.  She  wore  a  gown  of  primrose  yellow. 
An  unwonted  animation  lighted  the  cold  perfection 
of  her  face,  like  fire  seen  through  ice. 

308 


THE  MIRROR   IS  HELD  UP  309 

"So  glad  to  see  you!"  she  said  with  graceful  effu 
sion — "And  the  Doctor?  And  that  queer,  fascinating, 
puzzling  brother  of  yours,  how  are  they?  So  glad! 
Yes,  poor  sister  keeps  to  her  room  and  you  really 
mustn't  linger  with  me  an  instant.  I'm  not  even  going 
to  ask  you  to  sit  down.  Go  right  up.  Her  door's  at 
the  end  of  the  hall,  you  know.  You'll  comfort  the 
poor  thing  beautifully,  you  dear!" 

She  paused  for  breath,  a  vivid  smile  taking  the  place 
of  words.  Mrs.  Linford,  rendered  oddly,  almost 
obstinately  reserved  by  this  excessive  cordiality,  was 
conscious  of  something  unnatural  in  that  smile — a  too 
great  intensity,  like  the  greenness  of  artificial  palms. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  coming,  you  angel,"  she 
went  on  playfully,  "for  doubtless  I  shall  not  be  visible 
when  you  go.  You  see  Donald's  off  in  the  back  of 
the  house  re-arranging  whole  shelves  of  wretched, 
dusty  books  and  he  fancies  that  he  must  have  my 
suggestions." 

"The  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall!"  she  trilled  in 
sweet  but  unmistakable  dismissal,  one  arm  pointing 
gracefully  aloft  from  its  enveloping  foam  of  draperies, 
that  same  too-intense  smile  upon  the  Greek  face  that 
even  Nancy,  in  moments  of  humane  expansion,  had 
admitted  to  be  all  but  faultless.  And  the  latter,  wonder 
ing  not  a  little  at  the  stiff  disposition  to  have  her  quickly 
away,  which  she  had  somehow  divined  through  all  the 
gushing  cordiality  of  Mrs.  Wyeth's  manner,  went  on 
upstairs.  As  she  rapped  at  Mrs.  Eversley's  door,  the 
bell  of  the  street  door  sounded  in  her  ears. 

Somewhat  less  than  an  hour  after,  she  came  softly 
out  again,  opening  and  closing  the  door  noiselessly. 
So  effectually  had  she  soothed  the  invalid,  that  the 


310  THE  SEEKER 

latter  had  fallen  into  a  much-needed  sleep,  and  Nancy, 
eager  to  escape  to  that  mind-world  where  the  happen 
ings  are  so  momentous  and  the  silence  is  so  tense,  had 
crept  like  a  mouse  from  the  room. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  paused  to  gather  up  her 
skirts.  Then  her  ears  seemed  to  catch  the  sound  of 
voices  on  the  floor  below  and  she  remained  motionless 
for  a  second,  listening.  She  had  no  desire  to  encounter 
for  the  second  time  the  torrent  of  Mrs.  Wyeth's  manner, 
no  wish  to  meet  unnecessarily  one  so  disagreeably 
gifted  in  the  art  of  arousing  in  her  an  aversion  of  which 
she  was  half  ashamed. 

No  further  sound  greeted  her  straining  ears,  and, 
deciding  that  the  way  was  clear,  she  descended  the 
thickly  carpeted  stairs.  Near  the  bottom,  opposite 
the  open  doors  of  the  front  drawing-room,  she  paused 
to  look  into  the  big  mirror  on  the  opposite  wall. 
As  she  turned  her  head  for  a  final  touch  to  the  back  of 
her  veil,  her  eyes  became  alive  to  something  in  that 
corner  of  the  room  now  revealed  to  her  by  the  mirror 
— something  that  held  her  frozen  with  embarrassment. 

Though  the  room  lay  in  the  dusk  of  drawn  cur 
tains,  the  gown  of  Mrs.  Wyeth  showed  unmistakably 
— Mrs.  Wyeth  abandoned  to  the  close,  still  embrace 
of  an  unrecognized  man. 

Distressed  at  the  awkwardness  of  her  position,  Nancy 
hesitated,  not  knowing  whether  to  retreat  or  go  forward. 
She  had  decided  to  go  on,  observing  nothing — and  of 
course  she  had  observed  nothing  save  an  agreeable 
incident  in  the  oft  impugned  domesticity  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Wyeth — when  a  further  revelation  arrested  her. 

Even  as  she  put  her  foot  to  the  next  step,  the  face  of 
Mrs.  Wyeth  was  lifted  and  Mrs.  Wyeth's  big  eyes  fast- 


THE  MIRROR  IS  HELD  UP  311 

ened  upon  hers  through  the  impartial  mirror.  But 
their  expression  was  not  that  of  the  placid  matron 
observed  in  a  passage  of  conjugal  tenderness.  Rather, 
it  was  one  of  acute  dismay — almost  fear.  Poor  Mrs. 
Weyth,  who  had  just  said,  "Doubtless  I  shall  not  be 
visible  when  you  go!" 

Even  as  she  caught  this  look,  Nancy  started  down 
the  remaining  steps,  her  cheeks  hot  from  her  own 
wretched  awkwardness.  She  wanted  to  hurry — to 
run;  she  might  still  escape  without  having  reason  to 
suspect  that  the  obscured  person  was  other  than  he 
should  be  in  the  opinion  of  an  exacting  world.  Then, 
as  her  hand  was  at  the  door,  while  the  silken  rustling 
of  that  hurried  disentanglement  was  in  her  ears,  the 
voice  of  Wyeth  sounded  remotely  from  the  rear  of  the 
house.  It  seemed  to  come  from  far  back  in  the  library, 
removed  from  them  by  the  length  of  the  double  drawing- 
rooms — a  comfortable,  smooth,  high-pitched  voice — 
lazy,  drawling — 

"Oh,  Linford!" 

Linford  !  The  name  seemed  to  sink  into  the  still 
ness  of  the  great  house,  leaving  no  ripple  behind.  Before 
an  answer  to  the  call  could  come,  she  had  opened  the 
great  door  and  pulled  it  sharply  to  behind  her. 

Outside,  she  lingered  a  moment  as  if  in  serenely 
absent  contemplation  of  the  street,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  sought  to  recall  her  next  engagement.  Then, 
gathering  up  her  skirts,  she  went  leisurely  down  the 
steps  and  passed  unhurriedly  from  the  view  of  those 
dismayed  eyes  that  she  felt  upon  her  from  the  Wyeth 
window. 

On  the  avenue  she  turned  north  and  was  presently 
alone  in  a  shaded  aisle  of  the  park — that  park  whose 


312  THE  SEEKER 

very  trees  and  shrubs  seem  to  have  taken  on  a  hard, 
knowing  look  from  having  been  so  long  made  the  recip 
ients  of  cynical  confidences.  They  seemed  to  under 
stand  perfectly  what  had  happened,  to  echo  Wyeth's 
high-pitched,  friendly  drawl,  with  an  added  touch  of 
mockery  that  was  all  their  own — "Oh — Linford!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  NANCY 

IT  was  toward  six  o'clock  when  she  ascended  the 
steps  of  the  rectory.  Bernal,  coming  from  the  oppo 
site  direction,  met  her  at  the  door.  Back  of  his  glance, 
as  they  came  together,  was  an  intimation  of  hidden 
things,  and  at  sight  of  him  she  was  smitten  by  an  electric 
flash  of  wonder.  The  voice  of  Wyeth,  that  friendly, 
untroubled  voice,  she  now  remembered  had  called  to  no 
specific  Linford.  In  the  paralysis  of  embarrassment 
that  had  seized  her  in  that  darkened  hallway,  she  had 
failed  to  recall  that  there  were  at  least  two  Linfords  in 
existence.  In  an  instant  her  inner  world,  wrought 
into  something  like  order  in  the  past  two  hours,  was 
again  chaos. 

"Why,  Nance — you  look  like  night,  when  there  are 
no  stars — what  is  it  ?  "  He  scanned  her  with  an  assump 
tion  of  jesting  earnestness,  palpably  meant  to  conceal 
some  deeper  emotion.  She  put  a  detaining  hand  on 
his  arm  as  he  was  about  to  turn  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

"  Bernal,  I  haven't  time  to  be  indirect,  or  beat  about, 
or  anything — so  forgive  the  abruptness — were  you  at 
Mrs.  Wyeth's  this  afternoon?" 

His  ear  caught  the  unusual  note  in  her  voice,  and  he 
was  at  once  concerned  with  this  rather  than  with  her 
question. 

313 


314  THE  SEEKER 

"  Why,  what  is  it,  Nance — what  if  I  was  ?  Are  you 
seeing  another  Gratcher?" 

"Bernal,  quick,  now — please!  Don't  worry  me 
needlessly!  Were  you  at  Mrs.  Wyeth's  to-day?" 

Her  eyes  searched  his  face.  She  saw  that  he  was 
still  either  puzzled  or  confused,  but  this  time  he 
answered  plainly, 

"No — I  haven't  seen  that  most  sightly  cold  lady 
to-day — more's  the  pity!" 

She  breathed  one  quick  little  sigh — it  seemed  to  him 
strangely  like  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  knew  you  couldn't  have  been."  She  laughed  a 
little  laugh  of  secrets.  "I  was  only  wondering  foolish 
wonders — you  know  how  Gratchers  must  be  humoured 
right  up  to  the  very  moment  you  puff  them  away  with 
the  deadly  laugh." 

Together  they  went  in.  Bernal  stopped  to  talk 
with  Aunt  Bell,  who  was  passing  through  the  hall  as 
they  entered;  while  Nancy,  with  the  manner  of  one 
not  to  be  deflected  from  some  set  purpose,  made  straight 
for  Allan's  study. 

In  answer  to  her  ominously  crisp  little  knock,  she 
heard  his  "Come!"  and  opened  the  door. 

He  sat  facing  her  at  his  desk,  swinging  idly  from 
side  to  side  in  the  revolving  chair,  through  the  small 
space  the  desk  permitted.  Upon  the  blotter  before 
him  she  saw  that  he  had  been  drawing  interminable 
squares,  oblongs,  triangles  and  circles,  joining  them 
to  one  another  in  aimless,  wandering  sequence  —  his 
sign  of  a  perturbed  mind. 

He  glanced  up  with  a  look  of  waiting  defiance  which 
she  knew  but  masked  all  his  familiar  artillery. 

Instantly  she  determined  to  give  him  no  opportunity 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  NANCY  315 

to  use  this.  She  would  end  matters  with  a  rush.  He 
was  awaiting  her  attack.  She  would  make  none. 

"  I  think  there  is  nothing  to  say,"  she  began  quickly. 
"I  could  utter  certain  words,  but  they  would  mean 
one  thing  to  me  and  other  things  to  you — there  is  no 
real  communication  possible  between  us.  Only  remem 
ber  that  this — to-day — matters  little  —  I  had  already 
resolved  that  sooner  or  later  I  must  go.  This  only 
makes  it  necessary  to  go  at  once." 

She  turned  to  the  door  which  she  had  held  ajar.  At 
her  words  he  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  the  yellow 
stars  blazing  in  his  eyes.  But  the  opening  was  not  the 
one  he  had  counted  upon,  and  before  he  could  alter  his 
speech  to  fit  it,  or  could  do  more  than  raise  a  hand  to 
detain  her,  she  had  gone. 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  calculating  how  to  meet  this 
mood.  Then  the  door  resounded  under  a  double 
knock  and  Bernal  came  in. 

"Well,  old  boy,  I'll  be  off  to-night.  The  lawyer  is 
done  with  me  here  and  now  I'll  go  to  Edom  and  finish 
what's  to  be  done  there.  Then  in  a  few  days  I'll  be 
out  of  this  machine  and  back  to  the  ranche.  You 
know  I've  decided  that  my  message  to  the  world  would 
best  take  the  substantial  form  of  beef — a  message  which 
no  one  will  esteem  unpractical." 

He  paused,  noting  the  other's  general  droop  of  gloom. 

"But  what's  the  trouble,  old  chap?  You  look  done 
up!" 

"Bernal — it's  all  because  I  am  too  good-hearted, 
too  unsuspecting.  Being  slow  to  think  evil  of  others, 
I  foolishly  assume  that  others  will  be  equally  charitable. 
And  you  don't  know  what  women  are — you  don't  know 
how  the  sentimental  ones  impose  upon  a  man  in  my 


316  THE  SEEKER 

office.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  as  a  man — my 
word  of  honour,  mind  you! — there  never  has  been  a 
thing  between  us  but  the  purest,  the  most  elevated — 
the  loftiest,  most  ideal — 

"Hold  on,  old  chap — I  shall  have  to  take  the  car 
ahead,  you  know,  if  you  won't  let  me  on  this  one.  .  .  ." 

" — as  pure  a  woman  as  God  ever  made,  while  as  for 
myself,  I  think  my  integrity  of  purpose  and  honesty  of 
character,  my  sense  of  loyalty  should  be  sufficiently 
known — " 

"Say,  old  boy — "  Bernal's  face  had  lighted  with  a 
sudden  flash  of  insight — "is  it — I  don't  wish  to  be  indis 
creet — but  is  it  anything  about  Mrs.  Wyeth  ?  " 

"Then  you  do  know?" 

"Nothing,  except  that  Nance  met  me  at  the  door 
just  now  and  puzzled  me  a  bit  by  her  very  curious  man 
ner  of  asking  if  I  had  been  at  the  Wyeth's  this  after 
noon." 

"What?"  The  other  turned  upon  him,  his  eyes 
again  blazing  with  the  yellow  points,  his  whole  figure 
alert.  '"She  asked  you  that— Really  ?" 

"To  be  sure!" 

"And  you  said— 

"'No' — of  course — and  she  mumbled  something 
about  having  been  foolish  to  think  I  could  have  been. 
You  know,  old  man,  Nance  was  troubled.  I  could 
see  that." 

His  brother  was  now  pacing  the  floor,  his  head  bent 
from  the  beautifully  squared  shoulders,  his  face  the 
face  of  a  mind  working  busily. 

"An  idiot  I  was — she  didn't  know  me — I  had  only 
to—" 

Bernal  interrupted. 


FOR  THE  SAKE   OF  NANCY  317 

"Are  you  talking  to  yourself,  or  to  me?" 

The  rector  of  St.  Antipas  turned  at  one  end  of  his 
walk. 

"To  both  of  us,  brother.  I  tell  you  there  has  been 
nothing  between  us — never  anything  except  the  most 
flawless  idealism.  I  admit  that  at  the  moment  Nancy 
observed  us  the  circumstances  were  unluckily  such 
that  an  excitable,  morbidly  suspicious  woman  might 
have  misconstrued  them.  I  will  even  admit  that  a 
woman  of  judicial  mind  and  of  unhurried  judgments 
might  not  unreasonably  have  been  puzzled,  but  I  would 
tear  my  heart  open  to  the  world  this  minute — 'Oh,  be 
thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not 
escape  calumny!" 

"If  I  follow  you,  old  chap,  Nancy  observed  some 
scene  this  afternoon  in  which  it  occurred  to  her  that  I 
might  have  been  an  actor."  There  was  quick  pain,  a 
sinking  in  his  heart. 

"She  had  reason  to  know  it  was  one  of  us — and  if  I 
had  denied  it  was  I — " 

"I  see — why  didn't  you?" 

"I  thought  she  must  surely  have  seen  me — and 
besides" — his  voice  softened  with  affection— " do  you 
think,  old  chap,  I  would  have  shifted  a  misunderstand 
ing  like  that  on  to  your  shoulders.  Thank  God,  I  am 
not  yet  reduced  to  shirking  the  penalties  of  my  own 
blameless  acts,  even  when  they  will  be  cruelly  miscon 
strued." 

"But  you  should  have  done  so  —  It  would 
mean  nothing  to  me,  and  everything  to  you — to  that 
poor  girl — poor  Nance — always  so  helpless  and  wonder 
ing  and  so  pathetically  ready  to  believe  !  She  didn't 
deserve  that  you  take  it  upon  yourself,  Allan ! " 


318  THE  SEEKER 

"No — no,  don't  urge!  I  may  have  made  mistakes, 
though  I  will  say  that  few  men  of  my — well,  my  attrac 
tions!  Why  not  say  it  bluntly  ? — few  men  of  my  attrac 
tions,  placed  as  I  have  been,  would  have  made  so  few — 
but  I  shall  never  be  found  shirking  their  consequences 
— it  is  not  in  my  nature,  thank  God,  to  let  another  bear 
the  burden — I  can  always  be  a  man ! — 

"But,  old  boy — you  must  think  of  poor  Nancy — 
not  of  me!"  Again  he  felt  the  hurt  of  her  suspicion. 

"True — compassion  requires  that  I  think  of  her 
rather  than  of  my  own  pride — and  I  have — but,  you 
see,  it's  too  late.  I  committed  myself  before  I  knew 
she  didn't  know!'' 

"Let  her  believe  it  is  still  a  mistake — " 

"No,  no — it  would  be  trickery — and  it's  impracti 
cable — I  as  good  as  confessed  to  her,  you  see — unless" 
—he  brightened  here  and  stopped  in  his  walk — "unless 
she  could  be  made  to  believe  that  I  meant  to  shield 
you!" 

"That's  it!  Really,  you  are  an  executor,  Allan! 
Now  we'll  put  the  poor  girl  easy  in  her  mind  again. 
I'll  tell  her  you  did  it  to  shield  me.  You  know  it's 
important — what  Nancy  thinks  of  you,  old  chap — 
she's  your  wife — and — it  doesn't  matter  a  bit  how 
meanly — she  thinks  of  me — of  course  not.  I  dare  say 
it  will  be  better  for  me  if  she  does  think  meanly  of  me — 
I'll  tell  her  at  once — what  was  it  I  did  ?  " 

"No — no — she  wouldn't  believe  you  now.  I  dis 
like  to  say  this,  Bernal,  but  Nancy  is  not  always  so 
trusting  as  a  good  woman  should  be — she  has  a  habit  of 
wondering — but — mind  you,  I  could  only  consent  to 
this  for  the  sake  of  her  peace  of  mind— 

"I  understand  perfectly,  old  chap — it  will  help  the 


FOR  THE  SAKE   OF  NANCY  319 

peace  of  mind  of  all  of  us,  I  begin  to  see — hers  and 
mine — and  yours." 

"  Well,  then,  if  she  can  be  made  to  suspect  this  other 
aspect  of  the  affair  without  being  told  directly — ah! — 
here's  a  way.  Turn  that  messenger-call.  Now  listen — 
I  will  have  a  note  sent  here  addressed  to  you  by  a  cer 
tain  woman.  It  will  be  handed  to  Nancy  to  give  to  you. 
She  will  observe  the  writing — and  she  will  recognise 
it, — she  knows  it.  You  will  have  been  anxious  about 
this  note — expecting  it — inquiring  for  it,  you  know. 
Get  your  dinner  now,  then  stay  in  your  room  so  the 
maid  won't  see  you  when  the  note  comes — she  will  have 
to  ask  Nance  where  you  are — 

At  dinner,  which  Bernal  had  presently  with  Aunt 
Bell  and  two  empty  seats,  his  companion  regaled  him 
with  comments  upon  the  development  of  the  religious 
instinct  in  mankind,  reminding  him  that  should  he 
ever  aspire  to  a  cult  of  his  own  he  would  find  Boston 
a  more  fertile  field  than  New  York. 

"They're  so  much  broader  there,  you  know,"  she 
began.  "Really,  they'll  believe  anything  if  you  manage 
your  effects  artistically.  And  that  is  the  trouble  with 
you,  Bernal.  You  appeal  too  little  to  the  imagination. 
You  must  not  only  have  a  novelty  to  preach  nowadays, 
but  you  must  preach  it  in  a  spectacular  manner.  Now, 
that  assertion  of  yours  that  we  are  all  equally  selfish 
is  novel  and  rather  interesting — I've  tried  to  think  of 
some  one's  doing  some  act  to  make  himself  unhappy 
and  I  find  I  can't.  And  your  suggestion  of  Judas 
Iscariot  and  Mr.  Spencer  as  the  sole  inmates  of  hell  is 
not  without  a  certain  piquancy.  But,  my  dear  boy,  you 
need  a  stage-manager.  Let  your  hair  grow,  wear  a 
red  robe,  do  healing — " 


320  THE  SEEKER 

He  laughed  protestingly.  "Oh,  I'm  not  a  prophet, 
Aunt  Bell— I've  learned  that." 

"But  you  could  be,  with  proper  managing.  There's 
that  perfectly  stunning  beginning  with  that  wild 
healing-chap  in  the  far  West.  As  it  is  now,  you  make 
nothing  of  it — it  might  have  happened  to  anybody  and 
it  never  came  to  anything,  except  that  you  went  off 
into  the  wilderness  and  stayed  alone.  You  should  tell 
how  you  fasted  with  him  in  a  desert,  and  how  he  told 
you  secrets  and  imparted  his  healing  power  to  you. 
Then  get  the  reporters  about  you  and  talk  queerly  so 
that  they  can  make  a  good  story  of  it.  Also  live  on 
rice  and  speak  with  an  accent — any  kind  of  accent 
would  make  you  more  interesting,  Bernal.  Then  preach 
your  message,  and  I'd  guarantee  you  a  following  of 
thousands  in  New  York  in  a  month.  Of  course  they'd 
leave  you  for  the  next  fellow  that  came  along  with  a 
key  to  the  book  of  Revelations,  or  a  new  diet  or  some 
thing,  but  you'd  keep  them  a  while." 

Aunt  Bell  paused,  enthusiastic,  but  somewhat  out  of 
breath. 

"I'll  quit,  Aunt  Bell— that's  enough—" 

"Mr.  Spencer  is  an  example  for  you.  Contrast  his 
hold  on  the  masses  with  Mrs.  Eddy's,  who  appeals  to 
the  imagination.  I'm  told  by  those  who  have  read 
his  works  that  he  had  quite  the  knack  of  logic,  and 
yet  the  President  of  Princeton  Theological  Seminary 
preaches  a  sermon  in  which  he  calls  him  'the  greatest 
failure  of  the  age.'  I  read  it  in  this  morning's  paper. 
His  text  was,  'Ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also  in  me.' 
You  see,  there  was  an  appeal  to  the  imagination — the 
most  audacious  appeal  that  the  world  has  ever  known 
— and  the  crowd  will  be  with  this  clergyman  who  uses 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  NANCY  321 

it  to  refute  the  arguments  of  a  man  who  worked  hard 
through  forty  years  of  ill-health  to  get  at  the  mere  dry 
common-sense  of  things.  If  Jesus  had  descended  to 
logic,  he'd  never  have  made  a  convert.  But  he  ap 
pealed  magnificently  to  the  imagination,  and  see  the 
result!" 

His  mind  had  been  dwelling  on  Allan's  trouble,  but 
now  he  came  back  to  his  gracious  adviser. 

"You  do  me  good,  Aunt  Bell — you've  taken  all  that 
message  nonsense  out  of  me.  I  suppose  I  could  be  one 
of  them,  you  know — one  of  those  fellows  that  get  into 
trouble — if  I  saw  it  was  needed;  but  it  isn't.  Let  the 
men  who  can't  help  it  do  it — they  have  no  choice. 
Hereafter  I  shall  worry  as  little  about  the  world's  salva 
tion  as  I  do  about  my  own." 

When  they  had  finished  dinner  he  let  it  be  known  that 
he  was  not  a  little  anxious  concerning  a  message  that 
was  late  in  arriving,  and  he  made  it  a  point,  indeed,  that 
the  maid  should  advise  Mrs.  Linford  to  this  effect, 
with  an  inquiry  whether  she  might  not  have  seen 
the  delayed  missive. 

Then,  after  a  word  with  Allan,  he  went  to  his  room 
and  from  his  south  window  smoked  into  the  night — 
smoked  into  something  approaching  quietude  a  mind 
that  had  been  rebelliously  running  back  to  the  bare- 
armed  girl  in  dusky  white — the  wondering,  waiting  girl 
whose  hand  had  trembled  into  his  so  long  ago — so  many 
years  during  which  he  had  been  a  dreaming  fool,  for 
getting  the  world  to  worship  certain  impalpable 
gods  of  idealism — forgetting  a  world  in  which  it  was  the 
divinely  sensible  custom  to  eat  one's  candy  cane  instead 
of  preserving  it  superstitiously  through  barren  years ! 

He  knew  that  he  had  awakened  too  late  for  more  than 


322  THE  SEEKER 

a  fleeting  vision  of  what  would  have  made  his  life  full. 
Now  he  must  be  off,  up  the  path  again,  this  time  know 
ing  certainly  that  the  woman  would  never  more  stand 
waiting  and  wondering  at  the  end,  to  embitter  his  renun 
ciations.  The  woman  was  definitely  gone.  That  was 
something,  even  though  she  went  with  that  absurd, 
unreasoning,  womanish  suspicion.  And  he  had  one 
free,  dear  look  from  her  to  keep  through  the  empty 
days. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  FELL  FINGER  OF  CALUMNY  SEEMS  TO  BE  AGREE 
ABLY  DIVERTED 

SHUT  in  his  study,  the  rector  of  St.  Antipas  paced  the 
floor  with  nicely  measured  steps,  or  sat  at  his  desk  to 
make  endless  squares,  circles,  and  triangles.  He  was 
engrossed  in  the  latter  diversion  when  he  heard  the 
bell  sound  below.  He  sat  back  to  hear  the  steps  of  the 
maid,  the  opening  of  the  door;  then,  after  an  interval, 
her  steps  ascending  the  stairs  and  stopping  at  his  own 
door;  then  her  knock. 

"A  letter  for  Mr.  Bernal,  sir!" 

He  glanced  at  the  envelope  she  held,  noting  its  tint. 

"  He's  not  here  Nora.  Take  it  to  Mrs.  Linford.  She 
will  know  where  he  is." 

He  heard  her  go  down  the  hall  and  knock  at  another 
door.  She  was  compelled  to  knock  twice,  and  then 
there  was  delay  before  the  door  opened. 

He  drew  some  pages  of  manuscript  before  him  and 
affected  to  be  busy  at  a  work  of  revision,  crossing  out  a 
word  here,  interlining  one  there,  scanning  the  result 
with  undivided  attention. 

When  he  heard  a  knock  he  did  not  look  up,  but  said, 
"Come!"  Though  still  intent  at  his  work,  he  knew 
that  Nancy  stood  there,  looking  from  the  letter  to  him. 

"Nora  said  you  sent  this   letter   to   me  —  it's  for 

Bernal " 

323 


324  THE  SEEKER 

He  answered,  still  without  looking  up, 

"I  thought  he  might  be  with  you,  or  that  you  might 
know  where  he  was." 

"I  don't." 

He  knew  that  she  studied  the  superscription  of  the 
envelope. 

"  Well,  leave  it  here  on  my  desk  till  he  comes.  I  sent 
it  to  you  only  because  I  heard  him  inquiring  if  a  letter 
had  not  come  for  him — he  seemed  rather  anxious  about 
some  letter — troubled,  in  fact — doubtless  some  business 
affair.  I  hoped  this  might  be  what  he  was  expecting." 

His  eyes  were  still  on  the  page  before  him,  and  he 
crossed  out  a  word  and  wrote  another  above  it,  after  a 
meditative  pause.  Still  the  woman  at  the  door  hesi 
tated. 

"Did  you  chance  to  notice  the  address  on  the  envel 
ope?" 

He  glanced  at  her  now  for  the  first  time,  apparently 
in  some  surprise:  "No — it  is  not  my  custom  to  study 
addresses  of  letters  not  my  own.  Nora  said  it  was  for 
Bernal  and  he  had  seemed  really  distressed  about  some 
letter  or  message  that  didn't  come — if  you  will  leave  it 
here— 

"I  wish  to  hand  it  to  him  myself." 

"As  you  like."  He  returned  to  his  work,  crossing 
out  a  whole  line  and  a  half  with  broad,  emphatic  marks. 
Then  he  bent  lower,  and  the  interest  in  his  page  seemed 
to  redouble,  for  he  heard  the  door  of  BernaPs  room 
open.  Nancy  called: 

"Bernal!" 

He  came  to  the  door  where  she  stood  and  she  stepped 
a  little  inside  so  that  he  might  enter. 

"I  am  anxious  about  a  letter.     Ah,  you  have  it!" 


THE  FELL  FINGER  OF  CALUMNY    325 

She  was  scanning  him  with  a  look  that  was  acid  to 
eat  out  any  untruth  in  his  face. 

"Yes — it  just  came."  She  held  it  out  to  him.  He 
looked  at  the  front  of  the  envelope,  then  up  to  her  half- 
shut  eager  eyes — eyes  curiously  hardened  now — then 
he  blushed  flagrantly — a  thorough,  riotous  blush — and 
reached  for  the  letter  with  a  pitiful  confusion  of  man 
ner,  not  again  raising  his  uneasy  eyes  to  hers. 

"I  was  expecting — looking — for  a  message,  you 
know — yes,  yes — this  is  it — thank  you  very  much, 
you  know!" 

He  stammered,  his  confusion  deepened.  With  the 
letter  clutched  eagerly  in  his  hand  he  went  out. 

She  looked  after  him,  intently.  When  he  had  shut 
his  own  door  she  glanced  over  at  the  inattentive  Allan, 
once  more  busy  at  his  manuscript  and  apparently  uncon 
scious  of  her  presence. 

A  long  time  she  stood  in  silence,  trying  to  moderate  the 
beating  of  her  heart.  Once  she  turned  as  if  to  go,  but 
caught  herself  and  turned  again  to  look  at  the  bent 
head  of  Allan. 

At  last  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  trust  herself  to 
speak.  Closing  the  door  softly,  she  went  to  the  big 
chair  at  the  end  of  the  desk.  As  she  let  herself  go  into 
this  with  a  sudden  joy  in  the  strength  of  its  supporting 
arms,  her  husband  looked  up  at  her  inquiringly. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  returned  his  gaze;  returned  it, 
with  such  steadiness  that  presently  he  let  his  own  eyes 
go  down  before  hers  with  palpable  confusion,  as  if  fear 
ing  some  secret  might  lie  there  plain  to  her  view.  His 
manner  stimulated  the  suspicion  under  which  she  now 
seemed  to  labour. 

"Allan,  I  must  know  something  at  once  very  clearly. 


326  THE  SEEKER 

It  will  make  a  mighty  difference  in  your  life  and  in 
mine." 

"What  is  it  you  wish  to  know?"  His  glance  was 
oblique  and  his  manner  one  of  discomfort,  the  embar 
rassed  discomfort  of  a  man  who  fears  that  the  real 
truth — the  truth  he  has  generously  striven  to  withhold 
—is  at  last  to  come  out. 

"That  letter  which  Bernal  was  so  troubled  about 
came  from — from  that  woman — how  could  I  avoid 
seeing  that  when  it  was  handed  to  me  ?  Did  you  know 
it,  too?" 

"Why,  Nancy — I  knew — of  course — I  knew  he 

expected — I  mean  the  poor  boy  told  me "  Here 

he  broke  off  in  the  same  pitiful  confusion  that  had 
marked  Bernal's  manner  at  the  door — the  confusion  of 
apprehended  deceit.  Then  he  began  again,  as  if  with 
gathered  wits — "  What  was  I  saying  ?  I  know  nothing 
whatever  of  Bernal's  affairs  or  his  letters.  Really,  how 
should  I  ?  You  see,  I  have  work  on  my  mind."  As  if 
to  cover  his  awkwardness,  he  seized  his  pen  and  hastily 
began  to  cross  out  a  phrase  on  the  page  before  him. 

"Allan!"  Though  low,  it  was  so  near  a  cry  that  he 
looked  up  in  what  seemed  to  be  alarm.  She  was  leaning 
forward  in  the  chair,  one  hand  reaching  toward  him 
over  the  desk,  and  she  spoke  rapidly. 

"Allan,  I  find  myself  suspecting  now  that  you  tried 
to  deceive  me  this  afternoon — that  Bernal  did,  also, 
incredible  as  it  sounds — that  you  tried  to  take  the 
blame  of  that  wretched  thing  off  his  shoulders.  That 
letter  to  him  indicates  it,  his  own  pitiful  embarrassment 
just  now — oh5  an  honest  man  wouldn't  have  looked  as 
he  did! — your  own  manner  at  this  instant.  You  are 
both  trying — Oh,  tell  me  the  truth  now ! — you'll  never 


THE  FELL  FINGER  OF.  CALUMNY     327 

dream  how  badly  I  need  it,  what  it  means  to  my  whole 
life — tell  me,  Allan — for  God's  sake  be  honest  this 
instant — my  poor  head  is  whirling  with  all  the  lies! 
Let  me  feel  there  is  truth  somewhere.  Listen.  I 
swear  I'll  stay  by  it,  wherever  it  takes  me — here  or  away 
from  here — but  I  must  have  it.  Oh,  Allan,  if  it  should 
be  in  you,  after  all — Allan!  dear,  dear — Oh!  I  do  see 
it  now — you  can't  deceive — you  can't  deceive!" 

Slowly  at  fir  ;t  his  hca(!  bent  under  her  words,  bent  in 
cowardly  evasion  of  her  sharp  glance,  the  sidelong 
shiftings  of  his  eyes  portraying  him,  the  generous  liar, 
brought  at  last  to  bay  by  his  own  honest  clumsiness. 
Then,  as  her  appeal  grew  warmer,  tenderer,  more 
insistent,  the  fine  head  was  suddenly  erected  and  proud 
confession  was  written  plainly  over  the  glowing  face — 
that  beautiful  contrition  of  one  who  has  willed  to  bear 
a  brother's  shame  and  failed  from  lack  of  genius  in  the 
devious  ways  of  deceit. 

Now  he  stood  nobly  from  his  chair  and  she  was 
up  with  a  little  loving  rush  to  his  arms.  Then,  as  he 
would  have  held  her  protectingly,  she  gently  pushed 
away. 

"  Don't — don't  take  me  yet,  dear — I  should  be  crying 
in  another  moment — I'm  so — so  beaten — and  I  want 
not  to  cry  till  I've  told  you,  oh,  so  many  things!  Sit 
again  and  let  us  talk  calmly  first.  Now  why — why  did 
you  pretend  this  wretched  thing?" 

He  faced  her  proudly,  with  the  big,  honest,  clumsy 
dignity  of  a  rugged  man — and  there  was  a  loving  quiet 
in  his  tones  that  touched  her  ineffably. 

"Poor  Bernal  had  told  me  his — his  contretemps.  The 
rest  is  simple.  He  is  my  brother.  The  last  I  remember 
of  our  mother  is  her  straining  me  to  her  poor  breast 


328  THE  SEEKER 

and  saying,  'Oh,  take  care  of  little  Bernal!'"  Tears 
were  glistening  in  his  eyes. 

"From  the  very  freedom  of  the  poor  boy's  talk  about 
religious  matters,  it  is  the  more  urgent  that  his  conduct 
be  irreproachable.  I  could  not  bear  that  even  you 
should  think  a  shameful  thing  of  him." 

She  looked  at  him  with  swimming  eyes,  yet  held  her 
tears  in  check  through  the  very  excitement  of  this  splen 
did  new  admiration  for  him. 

"But  that  was  foolish — quixotic " 

"You  will  never  know,  little  woman,  what  a  brother's 
love  is.  Don't  you  remember  years  ago  I  told  you  that 
I  would  stand  by  Bernal,  come  what  might.  Did  you 
think  that  was  idle  boasting?" 

"But  you  were  willing  to  have  me  suspect  that  of 
you!" 

He  spoke  with  a  sad,  sweet  gentleness  now,  as  one 
might  speak  who  had  long  suffered  hurts  in  secret. 

"Dearest — dear  little  woman — I  already  knew  that 
I  had  been  unable  to  retain  your  love — God  knows  I 
tried — but  in  some  way  I  had  proved  unworthy  of  it. 
I  had  come  to  believe — painful  and  humiliating  though 
that  belief  was — that  you  could  not  think  less  of  me — 
your  words  to-night  proved  that  I  was  right — you 
would  have  gone  away,  even  without  this.  But  at 
least  my  poor  brother  might  still  seem  good  to  you." 

"Oh,  you  poor,  foolish,  foolish,  man — And  yet, 
Allan,  nothing  less  than  this  would  have  shown  you 
truly  to  me.  I  can  speak  plainly  now — indeed  I  must, 
for  once.  Allan,  you  have  ways — mannerisms — that 
are  unfortunate.  They  raised  in  me  a  conviction  that 
you  were  not  genuine —  that  you  were  somehow  false. 
Don't  let  it  hurt  now,  dear,  for  see — this  one  little  un- 


THE  FELL  FINGER  OF  CALUMNY        329 

studied,  impetuous  act  of  devotion,  simple  and  instinc 
tive  with  your  generous  heart,  has  revealed  your  true 
self  to  me  as  nothing  else  could  have  done.  Oh,  don't 
you  see  how  you  have  given  me  at  last  what  I  had  to 
have,  if  we  were  to  live  on  together — something  in  you 
to  hold  to — a  foundation  to  rest  upon — something  I  can 
know  in  my  heart  of  hearts  is  stable — despite  any  out 
ward,  traitorous  seeming  !  Now  forever  I  can  be  lov 
ing,  and  loyal,  in  spite  of  all  those  signs  which  I  see  at 
last  are  misleading." 

Again  and  again  she  sought  to  envelope  him  with 
acceptable  praises,  while  he  gazed  fondly  at  her  from 
that  justified  pride  in  his  own  stanchness — murmur 
ing,  "Nance,  you  please  me — you  please  me!" 

"Don't  you  see,  dear?  I  couldn't  reach  you  before. 
You  gave  me  nothing  to  believe  in — not  even  God. 
That  seeming  lack  of  genuineness  in  you  stifled  my 
soul.  I  could  no  longer  even  want  to  be  good — and 
all  that  for  the  lack  of  this  dear  foolish  bit  of  realness 
in  you." 

"No  one  can  know  better  than  I  that  my  nature  is 
a  faulty  one,  Nance — " 

"Say  unfortunate,  Allan — not  faulty.  I  shall  never 
again  believe  a  fault  of  you.  How  stupid  a  woman  can 
be,  how  superficial  in  her  judgments — and  what  stupids 
they  are  who  say  she  is  intuitive!  Do  you  know,  I 
believed  in  Bernal  infinitely  more  than  I  can  tell  you, 
and  Bernal  made  me  believe  in  everything  else — in 
God  and  goodness  and  virtue  and  truth — in  all  the  good 
things  we  like  to  believe  in — yet  see  what  he  did!" 

"My  dear,  I  know  little  of  the  circumstances, 
but— 

"It  isn't  that — I  can't  judge  him  in  that — but  this  I 


330  THE  SEEKER 

must  judge — Bernal,  when  he  saw  I  did  not  know  who 
had  been  there,  was  willing  I  should  think  it  was  you.  To 
retain  my  respect  he  was  willing  to  betray  you."  She 
laughed,  a  little  hard  laugh,  and  seemed  to  be  in  pain. 
"You  will  never  know  just  what  the  thought  of  that 
boy  has  been  to  me  all  these  years,  and  especially  this 
last  week.  But  now — poor  weak  Bernal !  Poor  Judas, 
indeed!"  There  was  a  kind  of  anguished  bitterness 
in  the  last  words. 

"  My  dear,  try  not  to  think  harshly  of  the  poor  boy/' 
remonstrated  Allan  gently.  "Remember  that  what 
ever  his  mistakes,  he  has  a  good  heart — and  he  is  my 
brother." 

"Oh!  you  big,  generous,  good-thinking  boy,  you — 
Can't  you  see  that  is  precisely  what  he  lacks — a  good 
heart?  Oh,  dearest,  I  needed  this — to  show  Bernal 
to  me  not  less  than  to  show  you  to  me.  There  were 
grave  reasons  why  I  needed  to  see  you  both  as  I  see  you 
this  moment." 

There  were  steps  along  the  hall  and  a  knock  at  the 
door. 

"It  must  be  Bernal,"  he  said — "he  was  to  leave 
about  this  time." 

"I  can't  see  him  again." 

"Just  this  once,  dear — for  my  sake!     Come!" 

Bernal  stood  in  the  doorway,  hat  in  hand,  his  bag  at 
his  feet.  With  his  hat  he  held  a  letter.  Allan  went 
forward  to  meet  him.  Nancy  stood  up  to  study  the 
lines  of  an  etching  on  the  wall. 

"I've  come  to  say  good-bye,  you  know."  She  heard 
the  miserable  embarrassment  of  his  tones,  and  knew, 
though  she  did  not  glance  at  him,  that  there  was  a 
shameful  droop  to  his  whole  figure. 


THE  FELL  FINGER  OF  CALUMNY    331 

Allan  shook  hands  with  him,  first  taking  the  letter 
he  held. 

" Good-bye — old  chap — God  bless  you!" 

He  muttered,  with  that  wretched  consciousness  of 
guilt,  something  about  being  sorry  to  go. 

"And  I  don't  want  to  preach,  old  chap,"  continued 
Allan,  giving  the  hand  a  farewell  grip,  "  but  remember 
there  are  always  two  pairs  of  arms  that  will  never  be 
shut  to  you,  the  arms  of  the  Church  of  Him  who  died 
to  save  us, — and  my  own  poor  arms,  hardly  less  loving." 

"Thank  you,  old  boy — I'll  go  back  to  Hoover" — 
he  looked  hesitatingly  at  the  profile  of  Nancy — "Hoover 
thinks  it's  all  rather  droll,  you  know — Good-bye,  old 
boy!  Good-bye,  Nancy." 

"My  dear,  Bernal  is  saying  good-bye." 

She  turned  and  said  "good-bye."  He  stepped 
toward  her — seeming  to  her  to  slink  as  he  walked — but 
he  held  out  his  hand  and  she  gave  him  her  own,  cold, 
and  unyielding.  He  went  out,  with  a  last  awkward 
"Good-bye,  old  chap!"  to  Allan. 

Nancy  turned  to  face  her  husband,  putting  out  her 
hands  to  him.  He  had  removed  from  its  envelope  the 
letter  Bernal  had  left  him,  and  seemed  about  to  put  it 
rather  hastily  into  his  pocket,  but  she  seized  it  play 
fully,  not  noting  that  his  hand  gave  it  up  with  a  certain 
reluctance,  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

"No  more  business  to-night — we  have  to  talk.  Oh, 
I  must  tell  you  so  much  that  has  troubled  me  and  made 
me  doubt,  my  dear — and  my  poor  mind  has  been  up 
and  down  like  a  see-saw.  I  wonder  it's  not  a  wreck. 
Come,  put  away  your  business — there."  She  placed 
the  letter  and  its  envelope  on  the  desk. 

"Now  sit  here  while  I  tell  you  things." 


332  THE  SEEKER 

An  hour  they  were  there,  lingering  in  talk — talking 
in  a  circle;  for  at  regular  intervals  Nancy  must  return 
to  this:  "I  believe  no  wife  ever  goes  away  until  there 
is  absolutely  no  shred  of  possibility  left — no  last  bit 
of  realness  to  hold  her.  But  now  I  know  your  stanch- 
ness." 

"Really,  Nance — I  can't  tell  you  how  much  you 
please  me." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  They  looked  at 
each  other  bewildered. 

"The  telephone,  sir,"  said  the  maid  in  response  to 
Allan's  tardy  "Come  in." 

When  he  had  gone,  whistling  cheerily,  she  walked 
nervously  about  the  room,  studying  familiar  objects 
from  out  of  her  animated  meditation. 

Coming  to  his  desk,  she  snuggled  affectionately  into 
his  chair  and  gazed  fondly  over  its  litter  of  papers.  With 
a  little  instinctive  move  to  bring  somewhat  of  order  to 
the  chaos,  she  reached  forward,  but  her  elbow  brushed 
to  the  floor  two  or  three  letters  that  had  lain  at  the  edge 
of  the  desk. 

As  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  fallen  papers  the  letter 
Bernal  had  left  lay  open  before  her,  a  letter  written  in 
long,  slanting  but  vividly  legible  characters.  And  then, 
quite  before  she  recognised  what  letter  it  was,  or  could 
feel  curious  concerning  it,  the  first  illuminating  line  of 
it  had  flashed  irrevocably  to  her  mind's  centre. 

When  Allan  appeared  in  the  doorway  a  few  minutes 
later,  she  was  standing  by  the  desk.  She  held  the  letter 
in  both  hands  and  over  it  her  eyes  flamed — blasted. 

Divining  what  she  had  done,  his  mind  ran  with 
lightning  quickness  to  face  this  new  emergency.  But 
he  was  puzzled  and  helpless,  for  now  her  hands  fell  and 


THE  FELL  FINGER  OF  CALUMNY    333 

she  laughed  weakly,  almost  hysterically.  He  searched 
for  the  key  to  this  unnatural  behaviour.  He  began, 
hesitatingly,  expecting  some  word  from  her  to  guide 
him  along  the  proper  line  of  defense. 

"I  am  sure,  my  dear — if  you  had  only — only  trusted 
me — implicitly — your  opinion  of  this  affair — " 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  ceased  to  laugh,  stiffen 
ing  into  a  wild,  grim  intensity. 

"Now  I  can  look  that  thing  straight  in  the  eyes  and 
it  can't  hurt  me." 

"In  the  eyes?"  he  questioned,  blankly. 

"I  can  go  now." 

"You  will  make  me  the  laughing-stock  of  this  town!" 

For  the  first  time  in  their  life  together  there  was  the 
heat  of  real  anger  in  his  voice.  Yet  she  did  not  seem 
to  hear. 

"Yes — that  last  terrible  Gratcher  can't  hurt  me 
now." 

He  frowned,  with  a  sulky  assumption  of  that  dignity 
which  he  felt  was  demanded  of  him. 

"I  don't  understand  you!" 

Still  the  unseeing  eyes  played  about  him,  yet  she 
heard  at  last. 

"But  he  will — he  will!"  she  cried  exultingly,  and 
her  eyes  were  wet  with  an  unexplained  gladness. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
A  MERE  BIT  OF  GOSSIP 

THE  Ministers'  Meeting  of  the  following  Tuesday 
was  pleasantly  enlivened  with  gossip — retained,  of 
course,  within  seemly  bounds.  There  was  absent  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Linford,  sometime  rector  of  St.  Antipas, 
said  lately  to  have  emerged  from  a  state  of  spiritual 
chrysalis  into  a  world  made  new  with  truths  that  were 
yet  old.  It  was  concerning  this  circumstance  that  dis 
creet  expressions  were  oftenest  heard  during  the 
function. 

One  brother  declared  that  the  Linfords  were  both 
extremists:  one  with  his  absurdly  radical  disbelief  in 
revealed  religion;  the  other  flying  at  last  to  the  Mother 
Church  for  that  authority  which  he  professed  not  to  find 
in  his  own. 

Another  asserted  that  in  talking  with  Dr.  Linford 
now,  one  brought  away  the  notion  that  in  renouncing 
his  allegiance  to  the  Episcopal  faith  he  had  gone  to  the 
extreme  of  renouncing  marriage,  in  order  that  the 
Mother  Church  might  become  his  only  bride.  True, 
Linford  said  nothing  at  all  like  this; — the  idea  was 
fleeting,  filmy,  traceable  to  no  specific  words  of 
his.  Yet  it  left  a  track  across  the  mind.  It  seemed 
to  be  the  very  spirit  of  his  speech  upon  the  subject. 
Certainly  no  other  reason  had  been  suggested  for  the 
regrettable,  severance  of  this  domestic  tie.  Conjecture 

334 


A  MERE   BIT  OF  GOSSIP  335 

was  futile  and  Mrs.  Linford,  secluded  in  her  country 
home  at  Edom,  had  steadfastly  refused,  so  said  the  pub 
lic  prints,  to  give  any  reason  whatsoever. 

His  soup  finished,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Whittaker 
unfolded  the  early  edition  of  an  evening  paper  to  a  page 
which  bore  an  excellent  likeness  of  Dr.  Linford. 

"I'll  read  you  some  things  from  his  letter/'  he  said, 
"though  I'll  confess  I  don't  wholly  approve  his  taste 
in  giving  it  to  the  press.  However — here's  one  bit : 

"When  I  was  ordained  a  priest  in  the  Episcopal 
Church  I  dreamed  of  wielding  an  influence  that  would 
tend  to  harmonise  the  conflicting  schools  of  churchman- 
ship.  It  seemed  to  me  that  my  little  life  might  be  of 
value,  as  I  comprehended  the  essentials  of  church 
citizenship.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  my  difficulties. 
The  present  is  no  time  to  murmur.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
I  have  long  held,  I  have  taught,  nearly  every  Catholic 
doctrine  not  actually  denied  by  the  Anglican  formu 
laries;  and  I  have  accepted  and  revived  in  St.  Antipas 
every  Catholic  practice  not  positively  forbidden. 

"But  I  have  lately  become  convinced  that  the  An 
glican  orders  of  the  ministry  are  invalid.  I  am  per 
suaded  that  a  priest  ordained  into  the  Episcopal  Church 
cannot  consecrate  the  elements  of  the  Eucharist  in  a 
sacrificial  sense.  Could  I  be  less  than  true  to  my  inner 
faith  in  a  matter  touching  the  sacred  verity  of  the  Real 
Presence — the  actual  body  and  blood  of  our  Saviour? 

"After  conflict  and  prayer  I  have  gone  trustingly 
whither  God  has  been  pleased  to  lead  me.  In  my 
humble  sight  the  only  spiritual  body  that  actually 
claims  to  teach  truth  upon  authority,  the  only  body 
divinely  protected  from  teaching  error,  is  the  Holy, 
Catholic  and  Roman  Church. 


336  THE  SEEKER 

"For  the  last  time  I  have  exercised  my  private  judg 
ment,  as  every  man  must  exercise  it  once,  at  least,  and 
I  now  seek  communion  with  this  largest  and  oldest 
body  of  Christians  in  the  world.  I  have  faced  an  emer 
gency  fraught  with  vital  interest  to  every  thinking  man. 
I  have  met  it;  the  rest  is  with  my  God.  Praying  that 
I  might  be  adorned  with  the  splendours  of  holiness, 
and  knowing  that  the  prayer  of  him  that  humbleth  him 
self  shall  pierce  the  clouds,  I  took  for  my  motto  this  sen 
tence  from  Huxley:  'Sit  down  before  fact  as  a  little 
child;  be  prepared  to  give  up  every  preconceived  notion; 
follow  humbly  wherever  and  to  whatever  abysses 
Nature  leads/  Presently,  God  willing,  I  shall  be  in 
communion  with  the  See  of  Rome,  where  I  feel  that 
there  is  a  future  for  me!" 

The  reader  had  been  absently  stabbing  at  his  fish 
with  an  aimless  fork.  He  now  laid  down  his  paper  to 
give  the  food  his  entire  attention. 

"You  see,"  began  Floud,  "I  say  one  brother  is  quite 
as  extreme  as  the  other." 

Father  Riley  smiled  affably,  and  begged  Whittaker 
to  finish  the  letter. 

"Your  fish  is  fresh,  dear  man,  but  your  news  may  be 
stale  before  we  reach  it — so  hasten  now — I've  a  presenti 
ment  that  our  friend  goes  still  farther  afield." 

Whittaker  abandoned  his  fish  with  a  last  thoughtful 
look,  and  resumed  the  reading. 

"May  I  conclude  by  reminding  you  that  the  issue 
between  Christianity  and  science  falsely  so  called  has 
never  been  enough  simplified?  Christianity  rests 
squarely  on  the  Fall  of  man.  Deny  the  truth  of  Genesis 
and  the  whole  edifice  of  our  faith  crumbles.  If  we  be 
not  under  the  curse  of  God  for  Adam's  sin,  there  was 


A  MERE  BIT  OF  GOSSIP  337 

never  a  need  for  a  Saviour,  the  Incarnation  and  the 
Atonement  become  meaningless,  and  our  Lord  is 
reduced  to  the  status  of  a  human  teacher  of  a  disputable 
philosophy — a  peasant  moralist  with  certain  delusions 
of  grandeur — an  agitator  and  heretic  whom  the  author 
ities  of  his  time  executed  for  stirring  up  the  people.  In 
short,  the  divinity  of  Jesus  must  stand  or  fall  with  the 
divinity  of  the  God  of  Moses,  and  this  in  turn  rests  upon 
the  historical  truth  of  Genesis.  If  the  Fall  of  man  be 
successfully  disputed,  the  God  of  Moses  becomes  a 
figment  of  the  Jewish  imagination — Jesus  becomes  man. 
And  this  is  what  Science  asserts,  while  we  of  the  outer 
churches,  through  cowardice  or  indolence — too  often, 
alas!  through  our  own  skepticism — have  allowed  Science 
thus  to  obscure  the  issue.  We  have  fatuously  thought 
to  surrender  the  sin  of  Adam,  and  still  to  keep  a  Saviour 
— not  perceiving  that  we  must  keep  both  or  neither. 

"There  is  the  issue.  The  Church  says  that  man  is 
born  under  the  curse  of  God  and  so  remains  until 
redeemed,  through  the  sacraments  of  the  Church,  by 
the  blood  of  God's  only  begotten  Son. 

"Science  says  man  is  not  fallen,  but  has  risen  steadily 
from  remote  brute  ancestors.  If  science  be  right — 
and  by  mere  evidence  its  contention  is  plausible — then 
original  sin  is  a  figment  and  natural  man  is  a  glorious 
triumph  over  brutehood,  not  only  requiring  no  saviour 
— since  he  is  under  no  curse  of  God — but  having  every 
reason  to  believe  that  the  divine  favour  has  ever  attended 
him  in  his  upward  trend. 

"But  if  one  finds  mere  evidence  insufficient  to  out 
weigh  that  most  glorious  death  on  Calvary,  if  one 
regards  that  crucifixion  as  a  tear  of  faith  on  the  world's 
cold  cheek  of  doubt  to  make  it  burn  forever,  then  one 


338  THE  SEEKER 

must  turn  to  the  only  church  that  safeguards  this  rock 
of  Original  Sin  upon  which  the  Christ  is  builded.  For 
the  ramparts  of  Protestantism  are  honeycombed  with 
infidelity — and  what  is  most  saddening,  they  are  giving 
way  to  blows  from  within.  Protestantism  need  no 
longer  fear  the  onslaughts  of  atheistic  outlaws:  what 
concerns  it  is  the  fact  that  the  stronghold  of  destructive 
criticism  is  now  within  its  own  ranks — a  stronghold 
manned  by  teachers  professedly  orthodox. 

"It  need  cause  little  wonder,  then,  that  I  have  found 
safety  in  the  Mother  Church.  Only  there  is  one  com 
pelled  by  adequate  authority  to  believe.  There  alone 
does  it  seem  to  be  divined  that  Christianity  cannot 
relinquish  the  first  of  its  dogmas  without  invalidating 
those  that  rest  upon  it. 

"For  another  vital  matter,  only  in  the  Catholic 
Church  do  I  find  combated  with  uncompromising  bold 
ness  that  peculiarly  modern  and  vicious  sentimentality 
which  is  preached  as  '  universal  brotherhood.'  It  is  a 
doctrine  spreading  insidiously  among  the  godless  masses 
outside  the  true  Church,  a  chimera  of  visionaries  who 
must  be  admitted  to  be  dishonest,  since  again  and 
again  has  it  been  pointed  out  to  them  that  their  doctrine 
is  unchristian — impiously  and  preposterously  unchris 
tian.  Witness  the  very  late  utterance  of  His  Holiness, 
Pope  Pius  X,  as  to  God's  divine  ordinance  of  prince  and 
subject,  noble  and  plebeian,  master  and  proletariat, 
learned  and  ignorant,  all  united,  indeed,  but  not  in 
material  equality — only  in  the  bonds  of  love  to  help 
one  another  attain  their  moral  welfare  on  earth  and 
their  last  end  in  heaven.  Most  pointedly  does  his 
Holiness  further  rebuke  this  effeminacy  of  universal 
brotherhood  by  stating  that  equality  exists  among  the 


A  MERE  BIT  OF  GOSSIP  339 

social  members  only  in  this:  that  all  men  have  their 
origin  in  God  the  Creator,  have  sinned  in  Adam,  and 
have  been  equally  redeemed  into  eternal  life  by  the 
sacrifice  of  our  Lord. 

"Upon  these  two  rocks — of  original  sin  and  of  prince 
and  subject,  riches  and  poverty — by  divine  right,  the 
Catholic  Church  has  taken  its  stand;  and  within  this 
church  will  the  final  battle  be  fought  on  these  issues. 
Thank  God  He  has  found  my  humble  self  worthy  to 
fight  upon  His  side  against  the  hordes  of  infidelity  and 
the  preachers  of  an  unchristian  social  equality!" 

There  were  little  exclamations  about  the  table  as 
Whittaker  finished  and  returned  at  last  to  his  fish.  To 
Father  Riley  it  occurred  that  these  would  have  been 
more  communicative,  more  sentient,  but  for  his  pres 
ence.  In  fact,  there  presently  ensued  an  eloquent 
silence  in  lieu  of  remarks  that  might  too  easily  have 
been  indiscreet. 

"Pray,  never  mind  me  at  all,  gentlemen — I'll  listen 
blandly  whilst  I  disarticulate  this  beautiful  bird." 

"I  say  one  is  quite  as  extreme  as  the  other,"  again 
declared  the  discoverer  of  this  fact,  feeling  that  his 
perspicacity  had  not  been  sufficiently  remarked. 

"I  dare  say  Whittaker  is  meditating  a  bitter  cyni 
cism,"  suggested  Father  Riley. 

"  Concerning  that  incandescent  but  unfortunate  young 
man,"  remarked  the  amiable  Presbyterian — "I  trust 
God's  Providence  to  care  for  children  and  fools — " 

"And  yet  I  found  his  remarks  suggestive,"  said  the 
twinkling-eyed  Methodist.  "That  is,  we  asked  for 
the  belief  of  the  average  non-church-goer — and  I  dare 
say  he  gave  it  to  us.  It  occurs  to  me  further  that  he 
has  merely  had  the  wit  to  put  in  blunt,  brutal  words 


340  THE  SEEKER 

what  so  many  of  us  declare  with  academic  flourishes. 
We  can  all  name  a  dozen  treatises  written  by  theolo 
gians  ostensibly  orthodox  which  actually  justify  his 
utterances.  It  seems  to  me,  then,  that  we  may  profit 
by  his  blasphemies." 

"How?"  demanded  Whittaker,  with  some  bluntness. 

"Ah — that  is  what  the  Church  must  determine.  We 
already  know  how  to  reach  the  heathen,  the  unbookish, 
the  unthinking — but  how  reach  the  educated — the 
science-bitten  ?  It  is  useless  to  deny  that  the  brightest, 
biggest  minds  are  outside  the  Church — indifferentists 
or  downright  opponents  of  it.  I  am  not  willing  to 
believe  that  God  meant  men  like  these  to  perish — I 
don't  like  to  think  of  Emerson  being  lost,  or  Huxley, 
or  Spencer,  or  even  Darwin — Question :  has  the  Church 
power  to  save  the  educated?" 

"Sure,  I  know  one  that  has  never  lacked  it,"  purled 
Father  Riley. 

"There's  an  answer  to  you  in  Linford's  letter," 
added  Whittaker. 

"  Gentlemen,  you  jest  with  me — but  I  shall  continue 
to  feel  grateful  to  our  slightly  dogmatic  young  friend  for 
his  artless  brutalities.  Now  I  know  what  the  business 
man  keeps  to  himself  when  I  ask  him  why  he  has  lost 
interest  in  the  church." 

"There's  a  large  class  we  can't  take  from  you,"  said 
Father  Riley — "that  class  with  whom  religion  is  a 
mode  of  respectability." 

"And  you  can't  take  our  higher  critics,  either — 
more's  the  pity!" 

"On  my  word,  now,  gentlemen,"  returned  the 
Catholic,  again,  "that  was  a  dear,  blasphemous  young 
whelp!  You  know,  I  rather  liked  him.  Bless  the 


A  MERE  BIT  OF  GOSSIP  341 

soul  of  you,  I  could  as  little  have  rebuked  the  lad  as  I 
could  punish  the  guiltless  indecence  of  a  babe — he  was 
that  shockingly  naif!" 

"He  is  undoubtedly  the  just  fruit  of  our  own  tolera 
tion,"  repeated  the  high-church  rector. 

"And  he  stands  for  our  knottiest  problem,"  said  the 
Presbyterian. 

"A  problem  all  the  knottier,  I  suspect,"  began 
Whittaker— 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  "  interrupted  Father  Riley.  "  Oh, 
the  outrageous  cynic!  Be  braced  for  him,  now!" 

"I  was  only  going  to  suggest,"  resumed  the  wicked 
Unitarian,  calmly,  "that  those  people,  Linford  and  his 
brother — and  even  that  singularly  effective  Mrs. 
Linford,  with  her  inferable  views  about  divorce — you 
know  I  dare  say  that  they — really  you  know — that  they 
possess  the  courage  of— 

"Their  convictions!"  concluded  little  Floud,  impa 
tient  alike  of  the  speaker's  hesitation  and  the  expected 
platitude. 

"No — I  was  about  to  say — the  courage — of  ours." 

A  few  looked  politely  blank  at  this  unseasonable 
flippancy.  Father  Riley  smiled  with  rare  sweetness  and 
murmured,  "So  cynical,  even  for  a  Unitarian!"  as  if 
to  himself  in  playful  confidence. 

But  the  amiable  Presbyterian,  of  the  cheerful  auburn 
beard  and  the  salient  nose,  hereupon  led  them  tactfully 
to  safe  ground  in  a  discussion  of  the  ethnic  Trinities. 


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